


Pieces Of Something

by DarkChocolateCheesecake



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, Reader-Insert, Self-Insert, Smut chapters marked with asterisk, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-05-24 21:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 58,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6166906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkChocolateCheesecake/pseuds/DarkChocolateCheesecake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If you’d like, we may negotiate to more agreeable terms.”</p>
<p>What a <i>thoughtful</i> offer considering the circumstances. The man may as well have offered the option of losing your right foot or left foot -- the choice doesn’t matter if the result is the same. You’re going to have a permanent limp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“If you’d like, we may negotiate to more agreeable terms.” What a thoughtful offer considering the circumstances. The man may as well have offered the option of losing your right foot or left foot – the choice doesn’t matter if the result is the same: you’re going to have a permanent limp.

Still, that honey-drizzled voice carries on with feigned optimism. He knows he has you trapped. He knows you have no choice. He knows you can’t say no.

Admittedly, the fellow has a fine voice, no doubt well-tuned and practiced from years of oratory experience. Even in this semi-open space, his voice carries evenly with a distinct timbre. Was it better to have threats served on a pleasant voice? The knot thickly forming in your throat suggests not.

This is not the first time he’s tried to charm you with his sounds. No, you had had that pleasure just four days ago. And _every damn day_ since then.

The man and his melodically troublesome voice had been your companions for too long now, and they had begun to test your patience. There had been plans to politely, yet _venomously,_ tell the gentleman which part of a horse’s anatomy he could speak to the next time he felt inclined to visit, but today you were surprised.

Today, you were stuck good and proper.

You shift in your seat, eyeing the piece of parchment centered on the table in front of you before returning your gaze to the men standing on the other side of it. What were their names again? You’d think you should remember after so many visits. Though now, with each of their faces a mask of deadly seriousness, perhaps it is better if names remain a mystery.

It had begun as an innocent enough event – it _often_ does – an envelope had been pinned to your shop’s door one morning when you opened your bookstore for business. No name, no stamped wax seal. Just a slip of parchment, several bound dollars, and a request to translate what was inside. _Odd_.

Had you known what trouble it would bring, you would have burned it on the spot.

But curiosity got the better of you – it _often_ does – and what had started as a curious time sink mutated into a maddening exercise of wits. Few of the texts you owned gave you a glimpse of things you couldn’t glean on your own. But persistence and time were things you had no small amount of.

The mystery of it, of this peculiar visual “language,” refused to rest.

Through the course of translation there had been more than a few skipped meals and sleepless nights spent pacing the cool floors; a self-indulgent day off from running the bookstore; at least a dozen hours spent bent over your desk, making all manner of inhuman groans and half-screams while pulling at your hair. Easily, the best three weeks of your life.

And the message you extracted was agonizingly simple and equally insulting considering how much time you had put into the effort.

 _‘Life is precious_.’

Or of high value. Great importance. Something like that. There wasn’t a way to be completely certain since this was all you had of this infuriating language. It was a single page with a single sentence that had almost broken you. Almost.

Instructions within the original envelope had said to fasten it onto the door when, and if, the text could be translated. That would prove to be a bittersweet decision. Getting ready for bed that night, you were all smiles and triumphant strides. The next morning, though…

The next morning your doorstep darkened to the politely standing form of Haytham Kenway entering your shop. Hands relaxed at his back, his every feature a picture of calm propriety as he approached the counter and slid that familiar envelope across the counter.

He had spoken first, mixing few words as he questioned you and postured quietly; what other few shoppers you had paid the two of you no mind. Yes, you were the one to translate that wretched language. Yes, you had done it on your own – a rubbish bin full of unsent correspondences was proof of that. And no, you weren’t interested in being paid to translate more.

It had seemed rather foolish to accept work from the sort of person who stalks around pinning cryptic messages on doors. Having seen those weapons strapped to his sides, just visible under his coat, only cemented your decision. Your answer was a firm no.

That had been four _long_ days ago. Haytham didn’t quit.

Each denial to the request for your services had been met with Haytham returning to your doorstep the following morning with less sweet words and more gruff-looking men. Four times you had turned them down, and four times they had shown up in their previous number plus one. There were five of them in your store now, looking a mix of imposing and impatient. As dangerous as they looked, your streak of stubborn uncertainty still wanted to refuse their offer.

This was not a day that they would accept refusal, however. So what else was there to do but spit venom over being strong-armed into working for them?

“You said you wanted to negotiate, but you’re not giving me any options.” Letting your displeasure remain secret isn’t your primary concern, leaning deep into one of the wingback chairs decorating the side office and crossing your leg at the knee.

“Either I am to adhere to your requests or suffer the consequences.” You implore while propping your cheek on your upturned palm. “Which were what, again?”

Haytham and his men had taken to standing — with the former rocking his weight fluidly from heel to toe and back again, likely in a mix of annoyance and impatience since this ‘negotiation’ had been going on for over an hour. Possibly perturbed at your unwillingness to accept the inevitable. “As I have said before, it is a simple matter of offering your expert—”

You tut-tut him loudly, shifting forward in your seat to feign devoted attention. “No, no. The _consequences_ , what were they?”

He stops rocking. That low, stormy look of aggravation on his face had almost made the fearful drop in the pit of your stomach worth it. Almost.

It’s the first time he’s made that face. You make a mental note to repeat that folly at your own risk.

These men, after all, carried more arms than any decent person needed to carry. Soft clinkering of sheathed swords, holstered guns, and god knows what else had been ringing in your ears night and day since they had begun their morning visits. Terrifying as they are, here you are now being as catty and dismissive as possible, jaw clenched tight. You were facing the end of your livelihood – and possibly your life – if you chose poorly.

Whatever latent thoughts of your gruesome murder had been at the forefront of his mind, Haytham dismisses them to clear his throat into his fist and rests his arms behind his back. “I know it must be _very_ exciting for you to run this…” A hand waves in the air, circling as he searches for the word. “… _shop_ on your own. It’s just lovely, by the way. Very modest.”

The bait is obvious, but you’re sneering at him in response before you realize. The corner of his mouth quirks upwards, looking pleased that he can offer you back some part of your annoyance and continues.

“It would just be a terrible shame if your landlord raised your rent impossibly high. Or if this charming little shop and all its highly flammable contents were to be set alight and burn to the ground.” It’s almost unbelievable how casual he sounds, as though reading from a ledger or something equally interesting.

Fidgeting agitation had been your companion since these men first let on to threatening to destroy all you owned. Every muscle feels coiled and fatigued from the wasted adrenaline let on by the shock of it all. Willing death on them through stares isn’t getting you anywhere, though.

“And while it pains us so to endanger your… _quaint_ life,” he was really rubbing it in now. You sit in fitful silence, glaring up at him as he savors the moment like some damned cat lapping up clotted cream. “Your services and knowledge are needed with us. Immediately.”

“Right,” you regret prompting for the refresher. The tightness in your body cannot be ignored now and you sigh, shifting your seated weight from one side to another again. It was hard to get comfortable under such demanding stares. “ _Those_ incredibly reasonable consequences if I don’t drop everything I own to come do your bidding.”

“No, no.” He retorts, wagging a finger in the air. “You will be doing the bidding of my associates _and_ me. Working under our close supervision.” He smiles warmly, looking much more pleased with himself than a few moments ago. No doubt satisfied with giving you a taste of your own medicine. It’s perhaps the first genuine smile you’ve seen from him, and for once you have no response.

“Now, if there are no further interruptions?” He gestures to the documents on the table with quill and inkwell nearby.

The whole affair of coming to terms with your livelihood ending has been… tiring to put it lightly. But if you are to bend to the threats of strange men, it will be on your terms. A quick glance up confirms that all five of them are still watching you, each in a varying stages of worn-thin patience, but with some looking more annoyed than others. You can use that.

“I’ll consider the offer gentlemen; however,” you motion to the table. “I fail to see the appeal or the wisdom in agreeing to work for people who have threatened me. If we are going to work together, I will require a contract to be drafted. And that will take some time. So, do make yourselves comfortable.”

You stand and straighten your clothes with feigned disinterest, looking up as one of Haytham’s gentlemanly cohorts barks out before his leader can stop him.

“Anything we’ve come to offer you is more than enough for the likes of you. Be wise and shut your _damned_ mouth and accept our offer. You’ve wasted enough of our time!” The man is pulled back by another of the group, harshly whispering ‘ _Charles_!’

Ah, the one with the shortest fuse and the easiest to bait, if his blustering reddened face is any indication. As delightful as it would be to harness more of his seething rage, you have what you need for the moment. Your impartial routine continues with annoyance lightly sprinkled in your tone.

“My rate just doubled. Thanks to your friend’s outburst here.” The heavy rhythm of your heart feels deafeningly loud, beating against your breast and threatening to give out at any moment. It’s a dangerous game you’re easing yourself into now.

Your fingertips are skirting together spare pages of parchment now; you can barely recall walking to your desk to retrieve them before you’re already walking back under the gaze of five pairs of observant eyes.

“But we may set up some tentative terms and see where the morning takes us.” You add, but Haytham looks unbothered, raising his hand dismissively as he sits with a soft ruffle of his garments, practically ushering you back to your seat through gaze alone.

“I assure you, price is no issue. We are well-funded and equipped. Name what you need and you will have it.” His eyes stay unflinchingly fixed on yours as you take your seat.

Your mind swims at his words and you feel faintly dizzy. They hadn’t mentioned this before, and those words are not often mentioned for jobs you undertake. The life of an academic doesn’t pay the best. Hell, it barely pays _enough_ , but the prospect of being able to come out of this a great deal wealthier is very appealing.

And yet there is still a voice in the back of your mind screaming. What kind of men are they to have weapons, money, people, and god knows what else for resources at their command?

You softly clear your throat and look up at your company – each and every last man is returning a calculating stare – they’re ready for you to submit. Sheer will rises through the nausea in your core; you need it to keep your voice from faltering. “Then this should be easy. Let’s get started, shall we?”

It takes several minutes, 30 or so, in which Haytham’s guard dog henchmen remain remarkably well-composed, until both parties are satisfied with the conditions laid out.

Your hand strokes some stray hairs from your sight, tucking them neatly behind your ear as your touch continues down the length of your braid, stopping to toy with the soft ends. It’s a half-hearted effort to keep your mind preoccupied by concentrating on something other than the stares your company was giving you.

And my, how they stare.

Throughout the discussion and signing, any time your gaze strays upward, it is returned in fixed concentration by one of Haytham’s men. The first few times feel like coincidence. After all, you were doing most of the talking. But after the next half dozen times, it’s apparent that their task is to intimidate.

Not that it’s necessary. You’re already well-defeated and signing your surrender. Fighting the feeling of bile rising from your stomach, you speak gingerly.

“Very good, gentlemen. I believe we have it now.” Reaching for the newly finished draft, you rotate it and offer it out to Haytham, though, not before daring another hasty glance to the others. They are _still_ staring at you.

The document itself had been simple enough – you are well versed in covering your needs to keep from trouble. It outlined that you, Haytham Kenway, those under his command and further under his web of command would issue no bodily harm, injury, or death to each other under any circumstances for the length of the contract and thereafter, so long as there were no breaches.

Second, though you had tried your best to get out of it, the length of the contract would be fulfilled at Haytham’s estate or an acceptable secure location due to the delicate condition and security needs of the works you would be translating.

Next, reasonable requests for work-related materials or condition improvements would be provided from Haytham’s pocket. And last, that these terms were fluid, able to be changed by either party as long as both sides were in agreement.

It was a dangerous last-minute loophole for you and also one that Haytham now has access to.

“Yes, it appears everything is in order.” He only needs a brief glance over the document before he nods his approval and makes a move to stand, associates rising with him.

“Someone will be here around sunrise tomorrow to see to your safe arrival. Please have everything you’ll need packed and ready by then. The trip is not terribly far, but it would be best to only pack the essentials.” Was that a smile teasing on his lips? The bastard really is enjoying this.

You don’t bother to stand, only nodding in agreement. They could show themselves the way out.

It seems a much better option to turn your attention to the stacks of books that have been sitting aside from your last translation attempt. There were just so _many_. You couldn’t be sure how much packing would be allowed and since when had Haytham crossed the room to cloud your vision with his wide frame and dark robes?

You hoped you didn’t give hint to your surprise when you looked up – you’re fairly sure you did judging by the way his eyes crinkled – to meet his gaze.

“…yes?” You manage to say, that feeling of being feverishly hot under your skin becoming ever-present when speaking to this man.

“These may not be the friendliest circumstances, but I would like to formally introduce ourselves. We are partners now, after all.” Ever the formal gentleman, wasn’t he? You don’t know how much more you can stomach as you look at his proffered hand.

“Yes.” You say dryly as you stand. “Let’s.”

He’s still a damned head taller than you and his imposing effect hasn’t lessened. You take his hand and begin the motion to shake it only to feel your hand being turned and lifted. There’s barely time to voice your disapproval before his soft lips connect with your skin.

A shiver branches through your spine to your toes; although, you can’t place whether it’s from surprise or revulsion. And this smug bastard is still locking eyes with you all the while.

Your tongue stumbles over your own name and you curse inwardly for doing so, trying to pull your hand away. You cannot allow him anymore satisfaction than he’s already stolen.

But he has you held fast between forefinger and thumb of his bare hand, running the pad of his thumb gently across your bare skin. Is his only purpose today to make you as uncomfortable as possible?

“Haytham Kenway,” he muses softly and finally releases your hand. “I am sure working with you will be a pleasure.”

“Yes. Quite.” You reply flatly and rest your hands at your sides. The man is quickly developing a talent for getting under your skin.

“Now, if you’d be so kind, please leave. I have a lot of work to do.” His eyebrows shrug slightly in deference. At least there are _some_ things he will listen to.

“Yes. I imagine you do. We’ll continue proper introductions tomorrow, I should think. Until then, good day.” The sounds of shuffling of boots against board, clinking metal weapons, and fluttering of thick fabrics rings in your ears long after your unwelcome company take their leave.

That insufferable hot feeling in your cheeks will not leave you either; you clap your hands against your face a few times for good measure. Just be smart about this and maybe you can make it out of this with no small amount of money and your life. Maybe.

-✩-

It’s certainly one of the groggier sunrises you have the pleasure of experiencing. Packing your things for the night had been long and bothersome, but there is time enough now for a quick breakfast – some eggs and bread to fill you up for what is sure to be an even longer day.

And, right on time, there’s the knock on your door.

Answering it reveals one of Haytham’s men from your previous encounter, but you can’t recall his name for the life of you. Though, if memory serves, he was the first selection for Haytham’s backup when it came to his subsequent visits.

The top bootlicker, no doubt.

“Ah, good morning to you.” You make no movement to hide your eyes raking him from head to toe and back again, a small smile forming. He looks about as pleased to be here as you are to see him.

There’s that glare you recognize from yesterday. “Charles, was it?”

“Yes, that’s right. Charles Lee.” From his ever-present stern demeanor, he appears to be in no mood for pleasantries and replies to your smile with a scowl of his own. “Are you ready to depart?”

“Just need to put on my shoes and coat. Why don’t you come in?” You step away from the door to leave him to his own devices, rounding into the kitchen to fetch your gloves and boots by the back door.

He has accepted your invitation, though he still stands by the door, stiff as a statue with about as much emotion. You roll your eyes and call to him from the kitchen, pulling on your boots with gloved hands. “I’ve a bit of leftovers from this morning if you’re feeling hungry as well.”

Expecting a reply, you round the doorway back into the main store front. Instead, Charles is browsing what you elected to leave out on display in the store: some historical documents, educational pieces, and religious texts to name a few.

“Well,” you exhale and watch his curiosity flourish. “The food is on the table. Help yourself while I get things loaded.”

“You are telling me you mean to move your things on your own?” His disbelief is poorly hidden.

“Well, they are my possessions.” He’s staring at you with all the thoughtful consideration he’d give a creature with a second head. And you return that stare in kind.

Charles still hasn’t moved from his position. You’re not sure if he’s stunned or insulted. Maybe a mixture of both. “Is there a problem?”

His mouth opens and silence spills out. He closes it, thinking a moment, before trying again.

“No. No, not at all.” He says softly, giving you another once-over before moving to the kitchen to eat.

Piling things close to the door earlier that morning made moving them to the wagon much easier. You receive some curious glances and offers for assistance as you load the wagon up. Being in shirts and trousers doing your own work isn’t something to which you were unaccustomed, but there is still some childish delight in seeing others silently disapprove such unladylike activities.

Loading your things and strapping them down isn’t a problem. No, that is simple enough on its own thanks to the foresight to package your things into manageable bundles. It is the biting cold in your hands and toes and your sniffling nose you are desperately trying to recover from once the wagon was loaded up and ready that is the problem.

“Charles, everything is…” Your voice trails off once you reenter the inviting warmth of your shop. You had raised your voice to call out to Charles in the kitchen, but here he is back in the center of your shop, browsing some of your sectioned off wares. “…ready now.”

“See something you like?” You try to sound bristly to keep him from touching things, but the sound of your stopped up nose just makes you sound sickly. His eyes are on you.

“Yes, I see plenty of interesting things. A number of oddities in your collection.” His gaze lingers on you for longer than what is comfortable considering the words he last speaks.

The temptation to sail one of your less valuable books into his head passes quickly, considering how minimal of a threat you are to this well-armed man. But the urge to see what this man makes of you is too great. “Consider _me_ odd, do you?”

He chuckles lowly as he gives your wares a last look and joins you near the doorway. “Yes, I consider you a number of things for the moment: odd, a frightful nuisance, intelligent to a degree, a half decent cook.”

You roll your eyes dramatically before meeting his gaze again, tapping just under the corner of your mouth. “Yes, well, were I to have one, I’m sure I could at least eat without getting food in my mustache.”

Stopping to watch him worriedly cleaning his face doesn’t interest you, but there’s a satisfyingly long stretch of time that you spend securing the ties in the rear of the wagon before Charles finally joins you. And his mustache is looking remarkably well tended now.

“All ready now?” You cheerfully ask as he wordlessly passes you. No doubt he’s a bit sore from the embarrassing spot moments before. You put the thought out of your mind as you lock the shop door and return to the wagon.

He’s frowning now, shrugging his coat collar higher to keep out the biting cold as he waits for you to cross around the other side and get yourself situated. You lean back against the lightly padded seat, holding your scarf tightly to your neck. The look on your face tells Charles what he needs to know in wordless exchange and the wagon sets off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a thing. I will continue to do the thing until its completion or until I no longer want to do the thing.
> 
> Enjoy the ride, whichever way it ends. ✩


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haytham sets about getting things in order.

It’s a fairly short ride by wagon, only an hour or so -- Cambridge to Boston isn’t too terribly far. But Charles makes poor company throughout the ride. Any questions or topics that you dare to broach with him are answered monosyllabically or not at all. After so many failed attempts to get him to warm up, if even a little, you settle on silence for the remainder of the trip. Better to be in peaceful quiet rather than forced conversation.

The chilly morning wind bites at parts of your exposed skin as the cart rolls along. Like little stinging nettles across the bridge of your nose and cheeks. Despite the wind’s attempts to dissuade you, you try to enjoy what little there is to see on the ride over. There’s farmhouses and workshops, of course. Even a less-than-inviting fort in the distance. But for most of the ride, it’s just plain _dull_.

Until, finally, Charles turns off the main road and onto a side trail leading up a thickly wooded hill. For most of the ride, you have been able to lose yourself to passive watching and waiting, but the time of you being an active participant is rapidly approaching. Is that thudding in your head from your heartbeat or hoofbeats? It’s hard to tell exactly.

You see the beginnings of split rail fencing and your heart leaps, your breath stilling as a building comes into view through the grove of trees.

And, my, what a sight the Kenway estate is to behold. The wagon is just now clicking up the slightly muddy dirt road, but even from this distance, the home looks expansive and well-kept. The heady mix of discomfort and light panic that had been fiddling at your stomach all morning, threatening to divest you of its contents, grows strangely calm.

The estate is certainly a lavish one. Not quite one befitting royalty, but to call it modest won’t do. It is a dark, lovely Georgian-style home with robust white columns supporting the arched entryway that complement the white shutters and accents that make up the home’s exterior. Tall, imposing chimneys stand out from either end of the main house – one of them already has quiet trails of billowing smoke.

From what you can make out, there appears to be a garden near the rear of the property — a mix of sprawling crops to one side and flowering plants on the other. On the far side of the estate you spot a large, black fenced area with handsome thoroughbreds grazing inside. It looks as though Haytham does have the funding to follow through on his promises.

Admiring from a distance had been one thing, but soon the horses pull to a nickering stop to the front of the main building and maintaining your mask of confident indifference proves difficult.

“So, this is the place?” Your stuffed nose was somewhat better upon spending the majority of the ride tucked neatly under your scarf.

“It’s fairly obvious, isn’t it? Don’t be dimwitted,” came Charles’s reply. “Come. Now.”

He was already out of the wagon and beginning to unload your things, quickly and a tad too roughly. There’s an urge to ask him if anyone has told him how wonderfully _charming_ he is, but you hop down to follow his lead.

There is a faint sound of metal on wood behind you as you ferry your packages from Charles’ hands to the doorstep. You look up expecting a servant or one of Haytham’s men to greet you, but no. Of course you couldn’t have that.

“Ah, lovely. Right on time, Charles.” Much as you don’t want to see Haytham quite this early, here he is. “Good morning to you, miss.”

Good god, his voice bites you down to your bones. You have your coat, gloves, and scarf to keep the freezing morning air from you, but what defense did you have from sound? Shivering silently, you pray it is due to the cold. “Yes. Good morning, Haytham.”

“Why don’t you come inside and I’ll show you to your room. Charles can handle these things. You sound like you’ve had enough cold for one morning.” Your shiver and stuffy nose seems to attract the wrong attention.

The window of opportunity to offer to stay outside never opens seeing as Haytham has a firm, guiding grip on your upper arm while his other hand splays fingers against your back. It’s hard to not follow his lead – the man possesses no small amount of strength.

“Come, come. This is a chance to get you warmed up and familiar with your new home away from home.” Having been all but hogtied and gagged to be brought here, you are to call this place home? This man’s humor knows no end.

The tour, despite your best efforts to remain detached, is a lovely one. Kenway has good taste. From the kitchen to the dining room, the library to the drawing room, everything is a prime example of reserved charm. Much like its owner, you presumed.

Had you just called Haytham Kenway charming? Good god.

It’s easy enough to affix that label on him when he chose not to threaten you out of your livelihood – especially now, as he glides from room to room, hall to hall, showing you all that he has in that admittedly pleasant voice of his.

A pang of queasiness knocks you from your reverie.

Allowing yourself to be captivated by this man, his things, or his money is _not_ an option. You dig your fingernails into the meat of your palms as you try to steady your thinking. This is a job. Nothing more. This isn’t some vacation house and neither Haytham Kenway nor any of his lackeys are acting in your best interest.

The tour continues to the upper half of the home, at the first door atop the stair’s landing.

“And here is your room.” He says, opening the door to an attractive room with large windows, basking the room in rays of natural light. While riding over, your mind had painted glum pictures of a meager space with a bed and desk, but this… _this_ is something else.

The lofty canopy bed is breathtaking on its own, neatly dressed and decorated in soft floral patterns. Across from it, an impressive yet currently extinguished fireplace looms with promise of comfortably warm nights, striking in its ornate brickwork and paneling.

There is a large sit-in window to the far side of the room, stacked invitingly with pillows basking in the muted light of pulled curtains. An empty bookshelf sits near it; ohh, your books and research will fill it nicely.

So many tasteful accents litters the room – a vase full of Blue Flag Irises sits on the table next to the sit-in; delicate paintings of landscapes and buildings and people adorn the walls. Everything your eyes take in looks remarkably suited to your tastes.

And your desk! When you see it, your heart flutters. It’s tucked neatly near the fireplace; you had almost missed it while surveying the room.

Oh, your desk is just the way you liked it – large and expansive enough so that your papers can be strewn about with plenty of room leftover to jot down some quick notes on scrap paper on the other end. The idea of having to work on an overly complicated desk with dozens of drawers and pull-out panels had caused you no small amount of dread, but this marvelous piece of what looked like solid wood silences those fears.

You skirt your fingertips across the smooth finish of the desk, and you have to admit there’s a feeling of giddiness bubbling up thinking about all the work you could get done here.

Charles’s voice calls from behind you.

“I see she has little complaints.” In your excitement, you had forgotten about Haytham, and now Charles, who have been standing and watching intently the whole time. You feel yourself bristle at the thought of your employers seeing you in this candid state.

“Yes, it makes these transitions a bit easier when the accommodations are more refined.” You hear Haytham’s reply.

Great. Now the two of them are playing off of each other. Each man by himself is troublesome enough, but together?

“Gentlemen, I assure you, I can hear you and do not appreciate being talked about as though I cannot.”

Something caught your eye just as you were about to turn and tell both men what you really thought. Haytham looks pleased at your furrowing brow as you raise your query. “What is _that_?”

It’s a giant, garish thing coated in steel and metal rivets that does not match the rest of the well-coordinated room. It sits next to your desk at about the same height, as though serving as an odious companion or reminder.

“Ah, that.” Kenway strides over to where you’re standing and strokes his fingers across the safe almost as lovingly as you had done to your desk.

“This is where your research will be saved – stored carefully under lock and key and away from prying eyes.” His bare fingers tap on it solidly.

The gravity of things sits heavy in your chest as Haytham and Charles begin bringing your things in and setting them beside your bed. Whatever you are to translate must be _very_ important — to Haytham, his men, and god knows who else. You had wished it to be a passing fancy of some wealthy madman, but that sickly feeling is warmly spreading through you again.

You almost jump out of your skin when your name is called, turning with a start to stare wide-eyed at Haytham who’s looking a sincere mix of surprise and concern; Charles looks pleased with your shocked expression.

“My apologizes,” Haytham says carefully. “I hadn’t meant to startle you. But if you’d like to continue the tour?”

Charles and Haytham are standing in the hall now; your consumed mind had missed them striding toward the door earlier. Wordlessly, and a tad sheepishly, you follow.

Charles parts to tend to other business, but the guided tour continues to show some washrooms and servants quarters should you need assistance with things but are unable to find Haytham or one of his men.

Your thoughts, though, refuse to stop their _damnable_ wandering.

Haytham is speaking, his lips are dancing to the rhythm of speech and sound rumbles from deep within his throat, but you cannot register it. The impression of today’s events is taking its toll, and your mind is buzzing maddeningly with questions about what exactly is going to happen to you.

Though, you’re cursing yourself mentally soon enough as you see Haytham has stopped walking and talking and is looking to you, expecting a reply with an arched brow as his hands rest on a twin pair of door handles.

 _Shit_ , what did he say?

You can’t recall if there had been a time in the man’s presence where you didn’t feel so foolishly small. The feeling isn’t terribly unlike a child who has spent one too many moments daydreaming in class only to have the instructor call on them for an answer.

“I’m sorry?” You ask dumbly. Hopefully, he’ll be kind.

He gives you a quizzical look and studies your features, but obliges before speaking again. “I said would you like to join me?”

Oh, Christ. Join him for what? Why weren’t you paying attention? He could be inviting you to brunch in a torture chamber for all you know. Just decline him politely. Any further time spent in his company will probably have you doubling over apologizing for your breakfast decorating the floor.

Although, if you are ever going to get answers to your questions…

“Yes, it’d be an honor.” The words spill out so quickly it’s hard to tell if what you say is coherent at all. Haytham is looking hospitable, but confused.

The nauseating rush of uncertainty from your stomach is settled somewhat by the expression he makes. It shifts to one pleasant surprise as he considers your words, eyebrows arching high and teeth beginning to show in a grin.

“My, I never thought you’d say that,” is his only response as he parts the double doors in front of him and enters.

Screaming couldn’t be more appealing right now, but you opt for a slightly more tasteful harsh clenching of your teeth as Haytham leads you into his personal combination bedroom and study. Certainly not what you were expecting.

“I wasn’t sure if you would feel comfortable in here, but I am happy to see it is not an issue.” His boots quietly thump across the wooden floor of his expansive quarters as he goes to pour himself a drink from a tall, hanging rack with a small selection of alcohol and some mugs aligned on a shelf.

And then he’s gazing at you again with that intense, focused stare. “Come. Have a seat, I insist.”

Your feet have been content to keep you firmly planted in the doorway since he first entered, petrified fully at the thought of what you just agreed to, but you need to will yourself to move. After the first tentative step, you breathe in and your nose brings in the scent of him – a sweet, dark smell that rolls on your tongue like the aftertaste of figs.

You just need to cross the room and not make a fool of yourself. Simple enough.

The room is large and wide, ample space for his needs, but nothing is left to waste. Each corner of the room has purpose: sleeping, eating, studying, writing, and is that a fighting dummy tucked in the back?

Your gaze wanders back to Haytham in the corner of his sectioned off study – a neat area with a large desk, wingback seating for guests and lounging, and bookshelf stuffed neatly with all kinds of literature. Oh, how you have to fight the passing urge to confirm if all this man read was literature on how to intimidate and get one’s way.

You snap back to attention. How long were you taking to walk to him? It felt like a small eternity you were drinking in your surroundings before sitting down.

Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice as he’s pouring another mug, most likely for you, and you ease snugly in one of the wingback chairs opposite of where he stands. There are a number of portraits on the wall of imposing looking men in regal positions. Though, there isn’t much time to look them over before Haytham offers your drink.

The mug is cool in your hands as you take it from him, meeting his gaze with a quiet ‘Thank you.’

He’s looking _softer_ now – not quite like when you first met him and he led on with full honeyed charm, and certainly not like yesterday when it seemed denying him would earn a sword through your neck.

He reclines into a chair on the other side of the table between you and wastes no further time.

“Now then,” he begins. The throbbing pulse in your veins stays remarkably even as your reeling imagination fills in the blank of his incomplete sentence with a number of awful conclusions.

Whatever he has to say, it can’t be good.

“I do want to apologize for all the posturing that has been done to get us to this point.”

 _Oh_. That’s… unexpected.

“In all honesty,” he pauses to drink. “I had expected you to agree to our terms upon our first meeting. I was not sure what to do to convince you, so I spoke with my associates for some…ideas. And yet you continued to decline our offers. You truly surprised me.”

Is he staring at you? He had paused his speech and you don’t dare to look up from the contents of the mug you were gently sipping to find out.

“I’m not often taken back by surprises,” he continues. “But you’ve been infuriatingly strong-willed and stubborn this whole time.”

Was that supposed to be a compliment? He was one to talk about stubbornness. You were about to reply when he continued speaking.

“I’m quite pleased we haven’t had to resort to violence to win you over.” Oh, yes. There it was: the reminder of employment with underlying threats – a fantastic foundation of trust.

You allow yourself the pleasure of sinking back into your chair, your gaze low and focused on his hands from where you sat, not daring to make eye contact. His digits are toying with his mug idly, bare thumb glossing over the wet rim while his fingers embraced the handle.

“I do hope you’ll find everything to your liking, and should you not, let me know and I will arrange the necessary changes. We are all _very_ eager to see what your research produces.”

Oh, that’s right. There are more of them, as you recall their faces. At least five people to assist with hiding your corpse should you disappoint them.

“Yes, about my work…” Your voice finds you at last, but you stop to consider that you had only been given a sample of that strange, coded language and even that had taken you weeks to sort out. Surely they realized that? Whatever results they were expecting would take time, so much time.

And what if you didn’t get the desired results? If you couldn’t get any results at all? Would they void your contract, refuse to pay you? You would be out on the street with only your books to warm you.

There were so many questions buzzing through your thoughts, but you couldn’t find your voice to ask. Who were these men? What sort of high-value work were they doing? Did they work under someone else? The military, maybe? Or another country?

You still didn’t pick up where your sentence trailed off, gaze transfixed on Haytham’s thumb caressing his mug. It wasn’t until his methodical movement stopped that you glanced up, locking eyes.

A slow quirk of a smile spread across Haytham’s features, accented by those grey-blue eyes -- you don’t think you’ll be forgetting it or the uneasy feeling it stirs within you any time soon – while he appraised your conflicted emotions, as though prying into your thoughts through will alone to see what lay inside.

“You’ve questions. Go ahead and ask,” he says in a low, friendly-enough tone.

Your throat bobs as you swallow hard, it suddenly feeling thick and full. A soft, noncommittal murmur is all you can manage before raising your mug to your lips in tense hands.

“I can understand how this situation may be difficult for you, and certainly intimidating. But I assure you, neither my men nor I will harm you so long as you follow our orders.”

Part of you wanted to believe those words. Part of you was still stupid and naïve and hoping to go back home. That part of you would get you killed for sure.

“Follow our rules and you will be safe, compensated for your time, and taken care of. I promise you that,” he says.

Crossing a burning bridge on a cart full of gunpowder pulled by a lame horse would be safer than believing his words.

“You have welcomed me into your home and shown me kindness. Thank you for that, but I would be a fool to trust the words of a man who has threatened me, Haytham.” That smile of his doesn’t falter the way you expected. No, it gets bigger. Ignoring the way it makes your heart skip a beat, you wring your hand continue. “I don’t trust you, sir. You or your men.”

The more you speak, the easier it is to keep your voice from wavering like a frightened child.

“I do have questions, but I’d like to keep them to myself for now.” You’re not sure if your boldness is coming from fatigue of Haytham’s threats or if it’s the liquid courage you’ve been sipping. “I will translate what I can the best that I can, and I hope that my research bears fruit you and your men find useful.”

He is gazing with calm concentration and devouring every word. “It is a pity that you find us untrustworthy, but understandable.”

That was all he had to say? No further words of menacing warning? Surely, he had the energy in him to muster one last show of dominance.

Several seconds pass in silence. You cast your glance heavenward in silent thankful prayer and make your move.

“Ah. Well,” you pause. “I suppose I should start unpacking.” This is your best chance to leave on lukewarm terms as you set your mug on the table and make the motion to stand, straightening out your clothing. “Haytham, it was a pleasure.”

Do you sound breathy? Hopefully, the sound of airy relief in your voice doesn’t catch in Haytham’s ears.

“Ah, one last thing if you’ve a moment.” _Of course_ he stops you. You were getting up, but stop stiffly when he speaks.

Maybe you had been staring too longingly for the exit. Hell, you are staring at it now; it’s heart-wrenchingly close, but unavailable. The open doorway is a much more comforting sight than Haytham, but you cannot continue to refuse eye contact. There’s a soft shuffle of fabric on fabric as he shifts his weight toward you, no doubt with his eyes on you now. You’ll have to face him. Your chest puffs from a deep, steadying breath and you turn to him to meet his gaze.

But his eyes aren’t on yours.

Instead, they’re transfixed on your lower half, eyebrows furrowed in scrutiny. You know the question is coming, but you wait for it anyway.

“You appear to have a preference for trousers to skirts and dresses, yes?” If you were not sure you were in the presence of a man who could undoubtedly kill you without hesitation, you’d speak more liberally. But it really wouldn’t do to be murdered the first day on the job, so you refrain.

Somewhat.

“Mister Kenway,” you start, but he stops you for a moment with a raised forefinger.

“Please, just Haytham.” He shifts back in his seat, as though preparing for your no doubt entertaining reply, eyes still combing your lower half fearlessly.

You mentally roll your eyes and nod.

“Yes, _Haytham_ , I do. Pants and trousers don’t get caught underfoot, or snagged on corners, or reveal my knickers when climbing ladders the way dresses and skirts tend to. I’ve a lot of manual work to do in my shop. Trying to do them in a pompous dress would see me _and_ my wares damaged.” Making an effort made to hide your distaste in defending your clothing preferences is melting away rapidly.

He cants his head to the side in acknowledgement.

“Ah, true enough. Although…” Haytham doesn’t finish his sentence, perhaps thinking better of it or perhaps teasing you with bait. Studying his expression from where you’re seated doesn’t tell you anything; you’re not sure what he’s thinking.

Since you cannot be sure, the winning move is simply not to play. Leave him to his thoughts so you can leave him behind.

“Although what, Haytham?” You inquire quietly. You’ll learn not to play. Eventually.

“A woman of your talents and charm _should_ have suitors on her doorstep continually. I find it hard to believe you have no gentlemen to call on when you need a task completed.” You couldn’t tell if his aim was to make you feel embarrassed for being single or successful. Still, a surprisingly warm chuckle tickles your throat, and you give a good-natured smile as he drinks deeply.

“I assure you, Haytham. The only time I need to call on a man is when I tire of providing carnal pleasures to myself.” He sputters on his drink and chokes.

The sound of him coughing and struggling to breathe widens your smile, but you still raise your tone in mock alarm and feigned concern. “Are you quite alright, Haytham?”

He’s still coughing and fighting to maintain his breath, waving his hand dismissively, but taking a rather long time to recompose himself.

“Y-yes.” He manages to choke out at long last, his voice strained. “I’ll be fine.” He’s still coughing out between words. It’s a pity to mar that impressive voice of his, but you can’t stop yourself from having another attempt as he drinks again to clear his throat.

“Ah, that’s very good. I’d hate to see you meet your end while thinking of men pleasuring me in tangled sheets.”

You drink, looking over the mug’s rim just in time to see Haytham’s cheeks pouch slightly as he sputters and holds his drink in to keep from choking again at your unexpected words. He gives you a disbelieving stare and you quickly glance away.

Haytham composes himself much more quickly this time, to your slight disappointment, and places his mug aside to resume speaking in that low, clear tone of his, all hints of choking now gone. “I see you enjoy a fair bit of teasing others. I’ll keep that in mind.”

There’s a distinctly unpleasant tingling that courses through your spine at the idea. Was he cataloging away pieces of information about you for later? That doesn’t seem terribly unlike something he would do – he or any of his men.

There isn’t time enough to finish that train of thought.

Seeing Haytham rising up brings your attention to focus on him, and seeing him extend his hand to help you from your chair dissipates any pleasant thought. How terribly familiar…

“I do think I should be getting ready to tend to other matters, though. Come, I’ll see you out.” Your gaze lingers dumbly on his hand a touch too long before Haytham piques with mock disbelief.

“You wound me to the quick, my lady. Surely, a scoundrel like me can be trusted enough to help you from your seat.” His hand remains, fingers curling playfully.

“I can stand on my own, I assure you.” You find your words at last, place your mug aside, and stand.

And teeter precariously on your first step, throwing your arms out to catch your balance. A little too much liquid courage and the blood rush of standing suddenly saw to numbing your senses somewhat.

There’s a ghost of a tug that totters you back from teetering and has you standing upright and balanced, despite yourself. The wave of foolishness passes quickly — how on earth had that just happened?

You quickly shoot a glare back at Haytham who already has his hands raised in mock surrender. You suspect he had intervened, but your head is beginning to feel so dreadfully hazy that the desire to accuse him leaves as quickly as it came.

It takes a small, concentrated effort to will your legs to remain steady enough to trek across Haytham’s bedroom with him closely following behind. You can almost feel his eyes raking over you as you stiffly walk. Not your finest hour, for sure, but you will make it through. This is the finish line.

Haytham bids you farewell without another quip and closes the doors to his quarters with a soft click of wood on metal.

Being on the other side of those large double doors to his room releases tension within you mentally and physically. Adrenaline is waning from you again, stealing your strength and warmth, and increasing your need for rest.

There is a word to describe your shambling gait of clutching to the hallway walls and meekly peering down joining halls to make sure the trip to your room is one free of further humiliation. That word would be _unladylike_.

Soon enough, though, you are back safe and sound in your room. As safe as you can be in this place.

The weak, numbing feeling in your legs is starting to recede and warmth is slowly ebbing back, thankfully. But you still rest your back against the door and the clothed softness of your bottom meets the hardwood floor as you decide to enjoy a few moments of precious privacy there.

You slip your pocket watch from your trousers. Not even noon and you’re _already_ exhausted. You stare at your watch for longer than necessary, eying its rhythmic ticks.

This is really happening.

You are here. Your things are here. These _goddamned_ men are here, and everything is feeling more painfully real than ever. Kicking over one of the cases near your bed makes things better for a moment – until you realize some of your more valuable books are inside.

Curses. Curses on Haytham Kenway, and curses on all his toadies.

But most of all, curses on this damned bed for looking so inviting. You drag yourself off the floor and into bed with a flop. Sheets and shoes be damned; you’ll stay as you are.

Just some rest. Maybe a nap for a few minutes. Anything at all to take your mind off your current reality.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting new co-workers proves to be exhausting.

By the grace of God, you’re allowed to sleep through most the day without interruption. The sun has long since set and your room is blanketed in chilly darkness aside from stray moonbeams peering through parted curtains.

It’s that same cool air across your exposed skin that has you gliding your hand across the bed sheet and out to the nightstand to reach for candle you keep there. Only it isn’t there. Neither is your nightstand now that you begin to register your hand grasping at air. Your eyes open wearily to take in unfamiliar shadows and silhouettes. These sheets, this bed, this room — none of it is yours. With alarm-stricken breaths, you sit up quickly and take in your surroundings.

Oh. Right.

You run a hand through your hair as your brief memory lapse begins piecing itself back together — the Kenway estate and the job you’d been so _kindly_ asked to take up.

Having your hands rub the sleepiness from your eyes and face helps a little and you climb out of bed to stretch your chill-strained muscles. Your stomach growls and gurgles loudly mid-stretch. Christ, how long has it been since you had last eaten? Since breakfast?

There’s probably food in the kitchen. _Downstairs_ where there would no doubt be at least one servant _._ And that, of course, means making yourself look presentable. The thought of that Herculean task is enough to make you groan — and almost enough to send you back to bed were it not for your stomach twisting in a painful reminder of who is in charge.

It’s far too dark to check your appearance in a mirror – not that you’d know where to find one in this room since you did not bring one with you. A quick smoothing down of your hair and clothes will have to work for appearances — your stomach isn’t feeling terribly patient.

Soon enough you’re grasping the door handle, steadying your breath, and slowly forming your plan in the dim light of your room. Simple course of action: get to the kitchen, get food, come back. No side trips, no curiosities, no conversations.

The handle twists with surprising ease — more surprising still, the door pulls from your grasp to give way to one of Haytham’s men. The look on his face is one of pleasant surprise; he nods his head politely.

“Ah, excellent timing, lass. I was just on my way to fetch you.”

Who was this one again? Your mind scrambles to recall his name. Matthew! …Edwin? Samuel, _maybe_.

From your stunned silence and no doubt entertaining face you must be making, he reaches out to shake your hand and chuckles reassuringly.

“William Johnson. A pleasure to meet you, miss.” His voice carries a rich bass tone across his Irish accented tongue. And, goodness, that firm grip he has on your hand now isn’t awful either.

Enjoying his pleasantly rumbling voice would be a lot easier if you did not have vivid memories of his now-smiling face glaring at you intimidatingly just a day ago.

“I trust you slept well,” his handshake soon ends and his voice carries on. “The others are meeting just downstairs. If you are ready, we may join them. They’re quite looking forward to your company.”

The others?

Haytham _had_ mentioned there being a round of introductions for the evening. Easy enough to forget in your haste to rest from this morning’s stresses. While you are lost in your hesitant thoughts, William has stepped toward the stairs, but turns back when you do not follow.

“Best not to keep company waiting,” he teases. His full mustache and beard have been curved in a good-natured smile, but he falters somewhat as he notes you still have not moved. He glances down the staircase before backtracking to where you stay firmly planted in your doorway.

“I understand how you may be feeling, but give us a chance,” that warm smile is back again as he turns. “We’re a fine sort. You’ll see.” He quietly descends the stairs, leaving you to your thoughts.

There’s a few seconds spent quietly cursing yourself and this moment, fists clenching and unclenching in response to your bundled nerves. This is your chance to get some questions answered, to find out what’s really happening here. But doing that means actually confronting all of them at once.

So much for no conversations.

Each tentative step down the staircase brings on delightful warmth and pleasant smells. The fireplace in your room had remain unlit through the evening allowing cold to seep to your core. But now the radiant heat from a nearby fireplace begins to melt away your chilled anxiety.

It’s not quite clear which room William has departed toward, but following the sounds of low voices leads you into a glowing formal dining hall, set with drinks and food. Thankfully, no one’s noticed your entrance just yet. There are enough sounds and smells to keep you masked for a few moments longer.

A nearby hearth’s flames sizzle from the fat dripping off the crisped skin of a pork roast spinning languidly on a spit in a tempting dance. The smell alone is enough to tempt you to bypass the table and its men for a closer look, but you steady yourself through your stomach’s growls of protest.

Oh, you will delight at biting into that soon enough, but the table holds its own treasures of assorted puddings and pies, roasted vegetables and fruits, buttered rolls stacked high in a neat basket. However difficult this meeting will be, at least there is the promise of food — all you need to do now is master the art of walking without drawing too much attention.

Seeing the group of men seated and deep in conversation punctuated by bouts of laughter is almost comforting. They appear slightly more human and less outlandishly villainous. Haytham’s eyes glance up at you in passing, resting on Charles for a moment as he speaks before returning to lock squarely on you.

From the way he’s grinning, he seems amused by your tense body language. Tension that only grows when the rest of them look up and acknowledge your presence. You’re forgetting to breathe.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” you say lightly and approach the table to sit and begin the evening’s discussions. There are some nods and words spoken to return your warm greeting. William even clenches his heart in jest, a playfully hurt expression on his face, after your polite declination to have your seat pulled out for you. Haytham catches the exchange and laughs through his nose.

There are plates set, but no one’s eating just yet, merely drinking and talking with the occasional laughter-shaken shoulders. You decide to pour yourself a drink and get comfortable — anything to fend off the dull ache in your stomach.

“Well, now that we are all gathered, I believe introductions are in order before continuing with this evening’s formalities.” Haytham’s voice rings clear. The unquestioned leader is sitting at the head of the table, naturally. He’s looking relaxed, pleasantly buzzed even.

Not exactly the gloom and doom that you were expecting. This is beginning to feel rather pleasant and polite — aside from the threats. Yes, there were probably going to be more threats looming overhead if you could guess from previous encounters.

“My name is Haytham Kenway. I am your primary employer and host during the length of your work here. I will be overseeing my men who will be overseeing you. But should you have needs that they cannot meet, you may come to me.”

There’s not much you can imagine you will need for a job like this. Just time and adequate working space.

“Though, they’re all quite capable. You’ll be in good care.” He turns his gaze to William, who gives you a slight nod.

“Ah, William Johnson, as you know.” He offers a fetching grin beneath his thick mustache. “I suppose you could say I handle researching information we have gathered. We’ll be working especially closely throughout this project. I’m hoping some of my findings will be of use to you and that we may compare notes. Though, you seem to be _exceptionally_ well-versed.”

Goodness, that voice could coax diamonds from coal. You give an amicable nod and smile in his direction; maybe losing yourself in this _nonsense_ wouldn’t be so bad.

“Awh, don’t butter her up all at once, Johnson. She’ll not survive the night if you keep up that nonsense.”

 _Another_ Irish lilt?

The younger of the two Irishmen playfully elbows his older colleague. “I’m warnin’ you, miss. He’ll charm ya for what ya know and leave ya for the buzzards.” He takes a deep drink from his mug. “Like some kind a’ goddamn brain vampire.”

You’d almost lost part of your drink from trying to hold back a snorting laugh, covering your mouth with the back of your hand and trying to manage swallowing, laughing, and not choking all at once. They chuckle softly at your distress as you try to cough your throat clear and breathe again.

“I-I’ll, uh, have to be on my guard then, won’t I, sir?”

“Ah, speakin’ a’ that. I’m Shay Cormac. I’ll be handling navigation, transport, and, ah, inside protection to keep ya safe, miss.” He reaches to refill his mug.

Protection? You had translated valuable works before, but this was the first time a job specifically mentioned someone who would be in charge of protecting you. The idea had crossed your mind before. These men were… _unusual_ in their severity and secrecy to put it lightly. You’ll have to ask more about that later, another voice cuts in.

“Thomas. Hickey.”

His voice is slightly louder than the conversational tone that’s in place. He reaches for his tankard and takes several long gulps. A man of decidedly few words, apparently. You glance from William to Shay with your eyes full of questions – they respond with knowing smiles.

A wet belch rips through the air as Thomas sets his empty mug down with a clatter.

“I do information acquisitionin’. Whatever Johnson here can’t dig up on friendly terms, I get by being a little more thorough.” Well! Mister Hickey’s candidness is surprisingly refreshing.

“More thorough, you say?” You innocently inquire, swirling the contents of your mug absentmindedly.

Thomas looks to you, a wicked smile on his lips. “That’s right, darlin’. Got a whole network of people under me.”

Can’t say he looks like any spymaster that you’ve ever seen – not that you’ve ever seen one, but you smile at his forwardness just the same.

“S’how we found you,” he adds.

How they _what_? The liquid in your mug sloshes to halt. Just when you feel like you can take things a little easier, one of them says something to put you back on edge.

“Excuse me?” You will the lump growing in your throat to subside.

Oh, that only makes Thomas grin wider.

“Didn’t think we’d found you by chance, didja?” His shoulders roll haughtily. “There was a lot of diggin’ I ‘ad to do. Lot a’ late nights out prowlin’ out ‘round your parts ta make sure we wasn’t wastin’ our time on ya.”

You frown somewhat at his words; he seems to delight in getting under people’s skin. Fine, then.

“Is that so? I had been wondering what smelled like a horse’s rear end. To think it was you that whole time,” you retort quietly.

Haytham lets out a surprisingly loud laugh and the others follow suit with their own amused laughs and snickers into their mugs. Even Thomas looks amused at your playfulness, winking at you before downing more alcohol.

Relief cools your flushed features. These men may be spies, or thieves, or even murderers, but at least they are good drinking company. _Somewhat_.

“Glad to see you are not completely helpless.”

Ah, you recognize that voice and the half-scowl that compliments it. Charles, that “charming” fellow who escorted you here this morning, is looking up from his mug at Thomas, who’s giving him an impish look.

“Charles Lee, in case you’ve forgotten.” You roll your eyes. “I’m tasked with seeing to other possible leads from what you may find in your research.” His ice-blue eyes languidly rake your form up and down. “I’m sure you won’t disappoint.”

“I will try not to, Charles. I would hate to see you cry.” Before Charles can reprimand you for your spirited insolence, you speak. “I suppose you gentlemen must know all about me thanks to Mister Hickey’s _thorough_ investigations. As such, I will pass on introductions.”

There’s a soft murmur of playful disappointment from William and Shay that eases some of the tightness in your stomach.

“Lovely. Now that we have had our introductions, we can get started.” Kenway’s baritone voice chimes in. “You know what your services are needed for, miss; however, before that begins I would like to cover some ground rules that you are to follow while staying here.”

He accepts your slow nod before continuing.

“The text you will be translating is of incredible importance and especially delicate. It is to be kept under lock and key when not in your care.” As Haytham talks, William departs the table to fetch a large chest and place it in the table’s center with a delicate thump. The clunking sounds of a key entering its lock and tumblers sliding away to release the chest’s lid distracts you more than it should.

“While living here, you are welcome to any room on the premises save for those that are locked.” Your mind is torn between being professionally attentive to Haytham’s ground rules and unprofessionally

inquisitive to the cloth-wrapped book William is carefully removing from the chest. The rising excitement of finally getting to work tingles across your skin.

“Finally, you cannot leave the premises unescorted.” Your gaze snaps to Haytham. That is certainly a strange rule to have, though you can guess why it is in place. Your eyes shift back to William sliding the square, wrapped bundle in front of you.

“Do handle it with care, lass.” William quietly suggests. You nod your thanks and acknowledgment and take the bundle with barely concealed eagerness, lower lip tucked between teeth.

“I… ah, assume that is to ensure I’m not carrying out things I shouldn’t? And that I will be subject to bodily searches when I need to leave?” Attempting to appear attentive is starting to lose its appeal. You wouldn’t mind at all if everyone simply left you to your work this moment.

Familiarity takes control of your hands as they delicately pick apart the cloth knot, folding away the sides to reveal a thick, hand-bound tome – about as thick as the length of your palm. The pages are wrinkled and fraying, adding to the thickness of the book. What a pity. It’s definitely seen better days.

Your fingertips gloss the cover and binding, turning it delicately in your hands to glean what you can from it. It’s a dance you’ve done time and time again, kissing apart tight-lipped tomes until they release their knowledge to you in quiet sighs and hushed whispers. A dance you never tire of and a dance that is entirely the reason you opened a bookstore. Though, this book, like so many others before it, sits in quiet defiance. You’ll change that soon enough.

“Somewhat. This rule is in part to protect the book and also to protect you.” Taking the cue from the puzzled look on your face, Haytham pinches his nasal bone and closes his eyes. “By being _escorted_ , I mean to say that whenever you leave the premises, one of us will be staying with you to ensure your protection until your return.”

“ _What?!_ ” You blurt aloud before you can stop yourself and place the book down. The idea of having goddamn keepers watching over you was more than you had been prepared for. “You want to watch me on _and_ off the premises?”

“Was part of that unclear?” Oh, the look on your face — scrunched up in disbelief and offense while Haytham’s stays maddeningly calm. “Trust me, it’s not something we’re looking forward to, either. But it will be useful so long as it keeps a knife out of your pretty little neck.”

You mentally scoff at his impertinence. “And if I _object_ to being followed like a child?”

“Then I pity the ear of the man assigned to watch over you that day, and to a lesser extent, your neck. Because it will be hard to breathe through the blood gushing into your puncture wounds.” Haytham’s crisp tone is relaxed, unbothered by your protestations.

“Did you have any other questions? I seem to recall you had many on your mind before,” he says with a hint of finality. He won’t be budging any time soon.

Who are these men? What is so important about this damned book that requires 24-hour protection even when the damned thing isn’t near you? Who would be coming after you to require an armed guard? Suffice to say you have questions, but your mouth is uncooperative.

“I don’t –… What about –…?” You fluster, heartbeat unsteady. “Is all of _this_ really necessary?”

Yes, the working conditions are lovely and you are to be well-compensated, but everything feels _off_ about these men. The simple act of having dinner with them sings of danger, secrecy, and oddly calculating stares. And now these elements will be following you wherever you go thanks to a ridiculous rule.

“We’ve been looking into this for quite some time. You’re the only one we’ve found who was able to translate it correctly,” William says, trying to ease your discomfort. “We need you safe or the search starts over again.”

“If you already had a piece of the language translated, then that means there was someone who could translate it before, right? Why not just hire them in my place?” You ask with a slightly elevated tone, but your questioning glances do not receive a response from them.

You furrow your eyebrows and raise your voice expectantly. “Well?”

“Yeah, why don’t you tell her about the last guy, Shay?” Thomas calls out louder than needed and sneers in Shay’s direction. The man responds by kicking Thomas roughly under the table, muttering angrily. Shay’s face blanches guiltily when he sees the concerned look on your face, you no doubt have questions and he is hesitant to answer.

After a moment, he speaks, low and steady.

“Mmn. We did have a translator before – a nice gentleman. That man is, ah, is dead now, miss. B-but that won’t be happenin’ again, I promise you.” Your open-mouthed look of shock could not be abated by his words, unfortunately.

 **Dead.** The last person in your position is now _dead_. You could be dead. Death is a very real possibility by being employed by these men.

William’s rumbling voice breaks the silence. “He’s right, lass. We underestimated things last time. It will not happen again. We’ll be here for you ‘round the clock. It’s nothing to fret over.” William’s last words swirl in your thoughts and your jaw clenches.

“I could be murdered and you’re telling me not to worry?” Who’s to say that the very men you are sitting with weren’t responsible for your predecessor’s untimely death? Sitting in your position, opposite Haytham’s end of the table puts you in a good position for the hallway. The idea of grabbing one of the table knives and making a run for it starts to grow in appeal.

“He is telling you not to worry because the people who were responsible for that unfortunate incident are not an issue any longer.” Haytham motions to a servant girl who had been standing near the doorway.  She promptly begins removing the roast from the hearth for cutting and serving.

“You sound pretty confident in that and still insist on this… this _protection_.” It is difficult to maintain coherent thought. The girl is doing a marvelous job distracting you with a knife delicately slicing away at the roast – the smell of it is making your stomach do flips. Swallowing helps to clear the water from your overeager salivating. Clearly, your stomach hasn’t forgotten the reason you are here.

“And who were those people anyway? What on Earth is so important about this that they would kill for it?” You add, trying your keep your mind off of food and on current matters.

“They were people who sought to gain that book and the information in it by any means necessary.” Not all that dissimilar from what Haytham is doing. “We don’t know what is in that book just yet, but whatever it is, it will be in our possession first with your assistance.”

You had been wrapping up the book to hand to William who locked it within its chest and placed it in the side of the room. Once finished, you stare at Haytham for a few moments as the serving girl is placing full plates before each seated person. The quicker this wraps up, the sooner you can eat.

Your life is in danger if you work with these people. But your life is in danger if you _don’t_. It’s not a feeling you’re unaccustomed to with Haytham: being bullied into a corner with only two ways out: his way and death. You suck your teeth in brief annoyance and speak.

“Very well, _Haytham_. I’ll translate your book for you as I said I would.” He has already started eating, cutting out neat portions of pork and chewing them slowly. Strange, he looks intimidating even while doing something as innocuous as eating. “As soon as that’s done, though, I’m finished. Understand? I don’t want to work for you or your people any longer than necessary.”

“Do you think that is wise?” He pauses do drink. “I cannot say for certain that those who pursue us will not go after you once our business is concluded.”

Your body stiffens at his words. That wasn’t something you had considered.

“If things are safe for you afterward, then I will acquiesce to your request. However, if things are not safe…” You feel your nails digging into your palm at his insinuations. “…well, I am sure our company is tolerable until things settle down.” He’s smiling at you now and it is nothing less than _infuriating_.

“Better safe than dead, yes?” Charles teases in smarmily. “You will be better off this way, girl. Just let us watch over you while you do your work and things will be fine. Don’t be an idiot and get yourself killed over pride.”

If it’s prideful for you to want your freedom, then you’ll be choking on pride until your death, however soon that may be.

“Only an idiot would blindly trust the so-called _help_ of people who threaten them, Charles. I’m here out of necessity, and fully plan to leave once everything is…” Your stomach rumbles and protests loudly, thoroughly finished with your mouth doing any task other than eating the bounty in front of you. “…is in order.”

Their faces are a mix of quiet amusement and snickers hushed by food and drink-filled mouths.

 _Well._ That’s certainly enough of that. You pick up your silverware, now opting to fill your mouth with food instead of words.

Satisfying your hunger comes easily through the evening. Each mouthful is delicious and goes down easily even after you sate your hunger. Immediately after the terse exchange, your gentlemanly company has been exchanging stories and laughter. Thomas in particular had _several_ stories to tell.

Something about a bar brawl he had been involved in where he’d punched the gut of an unfortunate drunk who immediately soiled himself. Another about screwing a tavern maid who had, as he put it: “ginormous tiddies”, in the guest room of her workplace while on duty. And some other gruesome one you’d rather not recall involving hot coals, a pair of tongs, and some ill-fated sod named Geoffrey.

“Oh, come off it, Hickey. Every time you tell that story, it’s a different hole those coals went into.” Shay teases at Thomas. The two of them have been playing off each other remarkably well, looking something akin to brothers as they sit across from each other – all smiles and laughs and attempts to one-up the other.

“’Ay. There’s  lotsa holes in a body and I can’t keep track of ‘em all, Shay.” Thomas is drinking from his mug again for the umpteenth time. “Les’ hear one of yer stories then. Whas’ sumfin _you_ done lately, pretty boy?”

Shay responds with a chuckle and throws a mocking kiss and wink at Thomas for his intended insult before leaning back in his chair. “I’m not as uh… accustomed to makin’ trouble like you, but let me see.” The chair starts to crane back with only two legs remaining planted on the ground.

Despite his words, people with scars like that – etching from his forehead, across his eye and cheek – aren’t typically far from trouble. Shay leans forward again, chair legs landing heavily, his eyes sparkling in mischief. “You ever go toe to toe with a wolf, Hickey?”

“Can’t say I ‘ave.” The man bites and rolls his lower lip, tongue laving over it a moment to leave it moist.

“All right. What about a bear?” Shay arches a brow in question, index finger tapping the tabletop lightly.

Hickey shakes his head and rolls his shoulders. “Not likely.”

“Shark?” Shay places his palms together, fingers lacing, to form a rows of fake snapping teeth for emphasis.

He snorts teasingly into his drink. “Fuck, no!”

“Well then!” Shay accepts Thomas’s words as his own admittance of defeat. “Sounds like you haven’t been around as much as I have, Hickey. Best get to work on that before you want to swap stories with me.”

You can’t help using your cup to contain your laughter, too. Despite the spikier moments of the night, you’re feeling soothingly warm, full, and just a bit tipsy. It’s a very relaxing mix and being able to laugh just a little eases your tension.

“And what about you then, huh, sweetness?” You look up at Thomas, brows raised in pleasantly hazy attentiveness. “You ‘ad any action lately?”

Before you can fully interpret the man’s hidden meaning, you answer. “Goodness, no. Even if I were the fighting or hunting type, I’ve been far too busy with my work.”

“Oh, yeah?” Thomas’ grin is wickedly wide now. “I’ll personally see to it that you get more action, love. We’ll find you some private time an’ keep you busy in other ways.”

Shay’s biting his lip to contain his amusement.

“ _Thomas_. Shay.” His boss’s voice is firm and low, hinted with agitation. A glance in Shay’s direction has the man casting his glance downward to avoid his boss’s gaze. “Try to behave yourself around our guest, please.”

“Why ‘aytham! I’m nothing if not a gentleman.” Thomas speaks in mock offense. Haytham is already rolling his eyes – he’s clearly heard this before. “I wouldn’t dream of doing anything the lady herself don’t approve of.”

“See to it that it stays that way.” This time it is William who speaks, chair scraping back against the wooden floor. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I think I’ll retire for the evening. It’s getting rather late.”

Going to bed _does_ sound pretty good now that it has been mentioned.

“Lovely idea, William. I think I’ll be going to bed as well.” Things are just slightly woozy when you get to your feet. William, ever the gentleman, offers a steadying hand that you politely decline. There have been enough times you felt uncomfortable for one night. Although Johnson is friendly enough, he is not so friendly that you will not keep him at a distance.

Haytham, Charles, Thomas, and Shay are left to each other’s company when you and William depart the dining hall. He carries the locked trunk with him up the stairs – with little effort despite its unwieldy size. At the top of the stairs, William asks you to come with him a moment, walking down the corridor to stop at a locked door.

“As you know,” he begins. “We will be keeping this book locked away when you are not using it.” He opens the door, tucking keys away, and steps inside. It’s a cozy bedroom, chilly and dimly lit by moonlight. “We’ll be looking over you in shifts. Very simply, one man a day.”

“I understand that.” You’re still standing in the doorway as William approaches the fireplace to light it with a striker.

The room looks simple enough: bed, desk, and bookshelf. Then your eye catches it. There’s a counterpart to the ghastly safe in your room – it’s just as large and unseemly as its twin. “…is this room where the book will be kept?”

“Aye, lass. The book will be here and your translated notes will be in your room.” Stoked to life, the fire crackles quietly and William begins moving the book from trunk to safe. “This is also the room you’ll be able to find us the night before and the day of our assignment to watch you. I’ll be having first watch in the morning so I will be staying the night.”

“Ah. Was it Haytham’s idea to keep the documents separated?” His deep chuckling has you looking away from an enticing bed and toward Johnson. After having slept all day, you don’t feel particularly tired, but wouldn’t mind lying down after having eaten so much.

“Actually, it was Thomas’s,” he adds with a hint of a smile in his voice.

Everything is locked securely away now and he pockets a ring of keys. Are those the only keys for the safe and the room? It would make sense if the men exchanged places during their watch, but it would be unfortunate if someone should lose something so important. He clears his throat and continues.

“Essentially, come the morning when you would like to begin working, you may find me here. I will escort you and the book to your quarters and…” He trails off.

“…and what, Mister Johnson?” Whatever he intends to say probably isn’t good. But what’s one more piece of bad news for the evening?

“And I will be standing watch while you translate, miss.” He adds flatly.

“Standing watch?” He only nods and adds no further explanation. You narrow your eyes. As much overprotection as they are providing for a simple book, you wouldn’t be surprised if – … _No._ Surely not.

“Will you happen to be standing watch in my room with me?” Your voice is weary and your mind foggy from several servings of alcohol. Though, not so foggy that you cannot piece things together.

He makes a face. So, that’s what he was hoping to avoid. You exhale softly and speak.

“That’s… fine, William.” _It wasn’t_. But it is preferable to get this sorted out sooner than later. “Just let me know what I can expect so there are no surprises, please. I’m here to work and that is what I plan to do. Hiding more things from me only fosters distrust.”

He’s still making that face, one where he has something to say but isn’t quite ready to announce it. His hand runs over his neatly tied back hair and he sighs. “It really is to watch over you as best we can, lass. And it’s only for as long as the book is in your hands. When you aren’t working, your privacy is yours. Completely.”

“That’s good to hear.” A few terse bits of silence pass. “If that’s all, then I do hope you have a pleasant night, William.”

It would be nice to trust those apologetic blue eyes. Really, it would. You part from his company as politely as you can manage and make your way back to your room for the night. You are not tired in the least, but there are things to consider before the morning comes.

So many things.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William, Shay, and Thomas make their intentions known. The reader suffers the consequences.

The first day on the job is like any other. Just as William described, once you are dressed and ready for work after a fitful night’s sleep, he joins you in your bedroom with book in hand. Kind as he is, he attempts to exchange morning greetings, but they are a blur of nonsensical sound despite your best attempts to be attentive. That familiar feeling of bubbling excitement rises through your core when you see it — that puzzling book wrapped up in cloth.

“Eager to get to work, I take it?” Johnson’s voice finally finds you through the clouded bog of your thoughts. His smile is warm enough, jovial and refreshed after what must have been a good night’s rest.

“Yes, Mister Johnson. I believe I am,” you start, your speech slower than usual as your eyes rake over the cloth-bound mystery. “Forgive me, I’m rather distra—…”

“Dedicated to your work as ever,” he interrupts.

Not _exactly_ what you were going to say, but it does have a much better ring to it. You nod your agreement as he extends the bundle to you. Eventually, he even tucks himself quietly away in the sun room to tend to his own matters. Perhaps he is aware that his prattling, while kind, is only getting in the way.

On any other occasion, you would have scolded yourself for such rudeness, but today is the day to sate some of that roiling curiosity that’s been fiddling at the back of your mind since this whole ordeal began. Your fingers pinch and pull at the cloth to bring the worn cover into view. It’s oddly blank — a feature that had escaped your notice in looking it over the night before. No indentations, no designs, no anything, really. Just a plain, paper, and, from what you can tell as you turn the book to the side and look closely, hide-bound book.

That’s fine.  After all, the cover bears no meaning on what truly lies in side — that’s what you’re here for.

You carry the delicate thing over to your desk, settling yourself in front of it to begin your task. The tome opens with a somewhat worrying crackle as the pages within struggle against the binding to open properly. How strange — something this old surely has been read again and again, broken in by the hands of eager readers and time itself.

…Then why does the binding still feel stiff and new? Many of the pages you can already tell are torn, stuck together, or otherwise completely illegible. Goodness, how old is this thing? Where has it been and what has it been through?

You lean back in your chair at the puzzling notion before reaching up to a collection of several clean cloths, rolled up neatly on the shelf above your desk. Handling each page requires a delicate touch and you ensure your hands are free of excess body oils before delving back in.

The few hours that pass are spent accented with quietly muttered curses and increasingly frequent stomps of your foot — more than once causing William to stare curiously from the sunroom. It’s all a part of your process, though. He’ll learn to ignore it. Possibly.

But god damn, you had forgotten just how difficult this language is, if it can be called that. It’s nothing but curves and lines to make intricate shapes that connect in ways you have never seen. It’s more art than language and open to just about as much interpretation. If the pages weren’t so worn and discolored from years of neglect, things may be easier. But even making out where lines connect and sever is proving difficult.

After being startled out of your skin at William’s abrupt suggestion for a lunch break, the two of you lock your notes away (what little there is), and William soon returns with some fruit, sweet bread, and cheese. It’s rather nice inside your room with the windows open, a cool breeze flowing, and the two of you slicing at apples in too-rare calm.

You may be able to use this.

“William,” you start. “May I ask what are you expecting to find from this book? Are there certain things I should be looking for?”

He hums at your question, placing an apple slice in his mouth and mulling things over. Several seconds pass without him answering or even looking like he was going to answer. Fine. It was a harmless chance at gleaning more information, anyway. Just as you’re about to change the subject, he speaks.

“We really have no clue. We absconded with that that book from people who weren’t sure what was in it either. Although, what we do know is that whatever it leads to will be of great importance.”

At least he can admit to being criminals. _Clueless criminals_ at that, but he must be crazy if he thinks you cannot see through him.

“Don’t you mean of great value? Looking for gold? Raw gemstones?” You say; he merely chuckles at your insinuation.

“I understand why you may think us mere thieves, but let me assure you. What we seek is beyond monetary value. If that is what it leads to, then so be it. However, that is not what we are looking for.” The look he’s giving you now is only somewhat worrisome with that knife in his hands.

“And… what is it that you seek?” Your hands make the practiced motion of cutting into your own apple now, working out the core.

It could be dangerous to ask him, but William has been the most forthcoming person yet. It will serve you well to compare his answer to the response of whoever is guarding you tomorrow. If these men are serving a practiced lie, you _will_ test it thoroughly.

“Truth.” He hums again, low and soft, and plucks away another apple slice. “The truth of things.”

What kind of answer is that? Is he seriously toying with you right now? It’s hard to tell exactly. And with these men being dangerous and sharp-witted, equally at ease joking with each other as they are putting a man to death, you have little intention to overstep boundaries.

“You don’t… quite look like any historians I’ve ever seen.” Your stomach knots tightly as you eye the way William is holding his knife, precise and unyielding. Yes, he can certainly put a man out of his misery quickly. Or hold him in it indefinitely.

“We aren’t in a traditional sense, lass. But I am being honest with you. We only seek the truth. And as such…”

Silence fills your ears where the song of his voice had once been. And then you hear it, a faint sound. Your gaze is cast upward in time to see him slowly lapping his tongue along his palm to get at stray apple juices.

Your breath hitches in your throat at the unexpected sight, your own hand motions slowing to a halt. His tongue is on the move now, slowly tracing over the “V” of his index and thumb with his nimble fingers closing the gap along the way. And that soft, wet sound of him sucking his thumb-tip clean all but leaves your ears burning.

That pink tongue of his makes a show of licking his thumb from base to tip before capturing the full length of the digit in his mouth. Your mouth cannot help but become somewhat slack as he continues. That index finger is next, delving into the warmth of his mouth under his full mustache. There’s a low hum of satisfaction when he pulls the wet digit from his lips, seemingly satisfied with its cleanliness.

There is a sensation of warmth low in your belly. Subconsciously, your thighs tighten together and your body stiffens while watching him. Vaguely aware of your mouth hanging open slightly, you close it and swallow hard. Christ, that mouth of his looks as deftly skilled as his hands.

“… And as such, we expect the same of you. You will seek truth, whatever it may be.” He says, picking up where the rhythm of his speech had left off under his Irish tongue. His striking blue eyes up at you, and your body jolts in response, maintaining startled eye contact for several seconds. And there’s that look of playful invitation spreading in his smile when he notices your appreciation. Thickness forming in your throat makes it hard to swallow.

“I—… Yes, well…” Is your only reply as you steady yourself and bring your hand up to eat. There is no need to think about William or anyone else here in any way other than strictly work-related purposes. Having to remind yourself time and time again after only the second day, though, is troubling. After all, William _had_ said that they were nice company when given the chance. But distraction tears you from your thoughts for a puzzling moment.

Why is your green apple now red?

“Lass, your hand!” William is standing in alarm, pulling out a handkerchief and sliding your knife from your hand in a fluid motion.

The pain and realization haven’t quite settled in yet as you see William bring up your left hand, a long and deep cut on the very same “V” of your hand that William had been making a show of with his own hand not seconds before.

His apologies are starting to register now. Something about how he was only teasing to get you to relax and have a laugh. The handkerchief is pressed firmly on your bleeding cut now, seeping through the white fabric instantaneously. Things are slowly registering back in the eternity of a few seconds.

First, the pain. God damn, the throbbing _pain_.

The plate of food in your lap clatters to the floor as you make to stand, groaning and hissing through your teeth. William is already up to grab at one of the hand towels you have above your desk.

“No! No wait, those are for my research!” Your protests are weak from the effort to not cry out in pain. William wraps the towel around your hand regardless, easing you back into your seat.

“I should think if you succumb to infection, you won’t be doing much research, lass.” The joke would have been funny if not for the worrisome flow of blood from your painfully throbbing hand. He presses your uninjured hand over the handkerchief and towel. His soft blue eyes are framed in a look of caring concentration as his lips bark out orders. “Stay right here. Keep this pressure on. I will be back.”

And then, it comes. The _foolishness_ of it all. You had sliced your hand over an attractive man and his equally appealing mouth tending to his alluring fingers.

Once you’re sure William is clear of the room, you weakly laugh. “Fantastic job. Excellent work. A perfect first day that will go down in history.”

Wincing, you pull pressure somewhat to check if you are still bleeding. Your answer is clear as more blood seeps through the hand towel. Wonderful. Better fold it double to keep it from getting on your hands until William returns.

After a lot of apologies – really, you aren’t sure if William will ever stop – your hand is bandaged and the bleeding has mostly subsided. It is surprising to see him treat your wounds with practiced ease – it only takes him mere moments to wrap your hand securely and neatly.

At first, you plea with him to be able to get back to work to take your mind off the pain, but William simply will not allow it. Though, it _is_ probably for the best. If any blood were to get on the book, who knows what torturous punishments you would be forced to endure.

And due to the elastic nature of the web of flesh on that part of your hand, it is lending itself to reopening the wound at least 4 times throughout the day. Each time met with a stifled yelp of pain. Yes, it is a good thing you aren’t working after all.

The next day you are forced into further inactivity. Your hand needs to heal and close its wound to be functional, and that meant having free time. More time to probe your guards for information. Charles is assigned to you after William — who apparently did not inform Charles exactly _why_ you aren’t working that day.

You roll your eyes at the mental image of William sweating bullets at being discovered that he is the reason for the work delay – especially over something so unnecessary. A little lie claiming your own clumsiness with a knife has Charles believing you instantly. Though, after how much of Charles’s insults you suffer for that morning, you ask why you bothered to cover for William at all.

But now William owes you. You can use that.

Charles, though, proves to be less than useful. Any questions you broach are met with an aggravating mix of disinterest and annoyance. After he assesses your wound and mixes in insults for good measure, he dismisses himself to his quarters for the rest of the day in a fashion befitting a spoiled child. The rest of the day is quiet, spent in much-disliked solitude as your mind swims with potential consequences for the unexpected delay.

The following two days, however, are wildly different.

On the second full day of rest, Shay pays you an unexpected visit. It looks as though the third day in the rotation is his — you’ll need to start keeping track. He knocks softly on the open door frame.

“You all right? Charles and William told me about your hand.” He accepts your sheepish nod before continuing. “Little clumsy with a knife, are you?”

“Yes, you could say that. I suppose books are more my specialty.” Perhaps you can make yourself out to be merely clumsy instead of lust-addled _and_ clumsy.

“Awh, that’s too bad. A girl like you should know how to hold a knife — defend herself right proper.” He leans in against the door frame and raps his fingertips on the solid wood for a few silent moments. “…you, uh, want to learn how?”

The expression your face contorts into must be entertaining from the way Shay’s lips spread in a wider smile, barely containing the laughter trapped behind it. The effect is contagious and you find yourself giving your own snickering laugh in return. It really is so easy to forget the kind of company you’re in at the right moment. Haytham and Charles don’t quite allow you to forget, but in the others’ company, it’s so hard to remember those tense fears from before.

“Of course,” he adds with a chuckle, “if you want your peace for the day, I’ll oblige you.”

“I don’t believe I have anything else to do today, Mister Cormac. Did you have somewhere in mind?”

“Oh, I’ve got just the place,” he steps from the doorway and out into the hall. “Just meet me out back whenever you’re ready.”

After having spent the previous day cooped up in your room, this is definitely looking like a better alternative than staying prisoner to your thoughts. If there’s no work to be done, even in spite of your bookish nature, you cannot help but feel a little antsy. You quickly get dressed and a few minutes later you find Shay outside

“For obvious reasons,” he points to his own hand that would mirror your injured one. “You won’t be holding any knives today. But that don’t mean you can’t learn a thing or two, aye?”

You nod your agreement and he walks with you to the rear of the expansive property to a clearing where some fighting dummies and obstacles are posted. The grove of nearby trees rustles in the cool mid-morning wind as he points you a ways back to take a seat out of harm’s way.

He deftly unsheathes his sword and dagger, weighing the pieces of metal in hand with the familiarity one may give a favored tool or utensil. “You’re a keen observer, miss,” he calls out. “Just watch real close and you’ll learn.”

Being able to watch him gives some awestruck insight into just how deadly Shay, and no doubt the rest of the men, can be. He is absolutely lethal with sword and dagger, each blade whirling effortlessly in his hands and sinking lethally as he strikes and cuts at various combat dummies. And, as impressive as that is, he is an amazing shot with a pistol and a rifle – he even offers to show you how to shoot, minus ammunition, after you mentioned you never have.

Being treated to your own personal show of deadly skills fills you with no small amount of emotions you cannot quite pinpoint. Excitement, definitely. Excitement roils to the top and stays there proudly. It is the emotions underneath that are sloshed and mixed together. Fear, maybe? Yes, the taste of fear is there, too. Making the wrong move could spell your end with them. But there’s something else hiding beneath that.

A glimpse of Shay tackling and piercing a dummy from the air shocks you into realization. Any sane person would see the act as lethal, dagger and sword piercing the vital parts of the fake person. But there is something about the way he crouches over the prone body beneath him, legs on either side, predatory and dominant. It is stirring something in you that you wish it hadn’t.

He looks up to where you’re standing in observation and you can see sweat starting to stick at the strands of his tied-back hair. The two of you have been outside for a while and the heat has been steady; his chest rising and falling to catch his breath as he stands. He approaches you, sheathing his weapons, and grins as he wipes the sweat from his brow. “What say we go inside and get a drink, yeah? It’s getting mighty warm out.”

He accepts your overeager nodding with a quirk of his brow before the two of you stroll back toward the house. Despite his earlier exertions, he’s recovered remarkably and is only slightly out of breath with most of the color in his face returning to normal. Just as you are about to remark on his physical prowess, a familiar voice calls out over yours.

“Oi! You two been having a romp in the bushes out back?” The melodically troublesome voice of Thomas calls out from back door he’s exiting. As usual, he’s all smiles and swagger, looking very much so like the cat that’s gotten the cream.

“What nonsense are you goin’ on about?” Shay calls back to him as you both approach the house.

“Oh, nuffin. Just last I 'eard, your job was guardin’ our guest, not plowin’ ‘er.”

Your skin tingles with a warm blush as you look to Shay. He’s certainly sweaty and breathing harder than normal, hair tussled just slightly. Christ, it _does_ look like he could have been having other kinds of fun. He catches your glance from the corner of his eye and turns his head to offer a reassuring smile before goading Thomas further.

“Hickey, you blockhead, I was just showin’ her how to handle herself. No doubt for when your drunk arse forgets to mind your manners.”

“Well, ain’t drunk yet, but I _was_ just about to fix that,” the taller man says as you two get closer and he appraises you with a look you can’t quite describe before he looks to Shay. “Why don’t you and the little priss join me? She looks like she could use some unwindin’.”

“Hah! And catch hell from Haytham?” Shay remarks.

“What’s there to catch if there ain’t no work to be done for the day?”

Shay stops a moment to consider Thomas’s words. “Got a point there.”

Suddenly, both pairs of eyes are on you, joined in playfully beckoning stares. Your body freezes up as if you’d been caught doing something you really shouldn’t have and you glance back and forth between the two of them.

“Wh… what is it?” You ask cautiously.

“Drinks,” Shay says.

“On us,” Thomas adds.

“Oh,” comes your plain reply as you glance diffidently at them. It has been getting rather warm out and a nice drink would sooth your dry throat. “I, uh, I suppose one drink can’t hurt, can it?”

“‘Course not! S’why we’re gonna fill you up with plenty.” Thomas says as he opens the back door open for you. “Ol’ Hayfam’s got a good selection he loikes to treat us to.”

What had started as an morning adventure into Shay’s incredible skills seems to have shifted into a livelier afternoon gathering as Thomas joins the fray. While the first round of drinks get passed about in the dining room, Thomas takes the ring of keys from Shay and mentions how much he hates sleeping in ‘that room.’

Ah, so that’s how it is — William, Charles, Shay, then Thomas — that’s the rotation of your keepers from now until… well, whenever you finish your work, you suppose.

The evening goes on with more drinking, more laughter, and more ridiculous stories than you ever expected from this troublesome duo, but even that must come to an end as the sun goes down and the hour grows late. You excuse yourself to your room for the evening. Shay’s a bit wobbly to be going out this late on his own and elects to sleep on one of the couches in the sitting room as Thomas tucks him in by roughly throwing a folded blanket at his face.

-✩-

The next day is much of the same. You are willing to start translating that mid-afternoon, even through a dizzying headache, but Thomas declines. Instead, he declares you need a bit more time to heal and that he knows just how to help, smiling suggestively.

You expect some debaucherous proposal, but instead Hickey takes you and a mildly conflicted Shay for an evening out at the nearest tavern — it’s even one you’ve been to before. Gambling isn’t your strongest suit, but Hickey is a tenacious teacher. Through the evening you learn to play some lively games of Hazard and some more thoughtfully reserved games of Fanorona. There were even a few times where you had won games over Thomas and Shay.

As daylight fades into darkness, the tavern’s patrons get louder – _so bottle-smashingly, drink-spillingly, stomp-dancingly loud_ – and in higher spirits. And by the end of it all, there’s a wave of relief that washes over you when Shay’s hand envelops your shoulder and he asks if you are ready to leave. He stifles a laugh when you look to him with pleading eyes. Your latest company is rowdy and insistent on your presence, but despite that, Shay is able to smooth over your departure with some good-natured humor.

Once the three of you leave the tavern, Hickey singing a happy tune with you while Shay cackles at every sour note. Out of habit, your body automatically turns in a direction different from that of your escorts. That fuzzy feel-good warmth that had blanketed you since you left the tavern is fading now, replaced with chilling realization.

You know the way home, of course. Going down a side street that leads to the main road and keeping straight would see you home. Your actual home. Your bookshop. For several long moments, your legs do not move forward as you catch yourself in the act of staring wistfully down the street for much too long.

A hand pressing into shoulder has you looking up at Shay’s oddly serious face. He’s looking past you, his sights on the side alleyway you had been eying. “Something the matter, lass? Did you see something?”

“Oh. No, Shay, it’s nothing. Really, it isn’t.” Despite your reassurance, Shay stays alert for the ride home, only pausing his surveillance to answer you or Thomas briefly before returning back to watchdog-like observation. It’s somewhat troubling seeing him that way — all bristled and ready to attack any phantoms that come from the shadows. But once all of you are back at the Kenway estate he seems to settle.

You quietly depart from Shay and Thomas’s company for the second evening in a row to retire early to the comfort of your bed. Every day spent here feels gradually easier to handle, though your heart still feels tight and vexed during some exchanges with your employers — Haytham and Charles in particular. But even then, spending time with these men and being able to just relax for once has had you smiling through most of the day. Being essentially forced to stay here _might_ actually be rather pleasant.

The tired fog of your mind eventually overtakes you during the dark; but, as the sun chases the night, morning must come. And it came.

And here you are now lying in bed flexing your bandaged hand. It hasn’t bled for a few days now and the wound has closed nicely in spite of your fiddling with it. Definitely still tender, but no longer in danger of bleeding. Eventually, you get up and prep for the morning. There’s a question of who to expect to be your guard on your mind as you walk through the hall and approach the door.

You knock on the door gently and… no one answers.

In days past you had seen: William’s smiling face; Charles’ scowling features — due to you arriving _late_ ; Shay’s happy but tired look; and Thomas’s tired and unhappy scowl — because you arrived _early_.

But now there isn’t anyone. You wait a few moments at the door and knock once more, only slightly harder. And still nothing. Strange.

After deigning yourself to an hour or so reviewing your notes in your room, you decide to try again. Sure, you had needed a few days off to recover, but things are supposed to be back on track by now. Several crisp knocks on the door ring through the hall. And still, no answer.

You huff out some frustration and spend a few moments of indecision biting at your lower lip, looking the door over. What if you just…

The door opens effortlessly and you peer inside.

“…William?” There comes no reply as you take your first step inside. The room is the same as it has always been — neatly arranged with all the furniture in its proper place. Locked safe included. “My apologies for disturbing you, but I’m coming in.”

Your teeth worry at your lip a little more at the lack of response. The room _does_ appear to be completely empty. The bed is neatly made and there don’t appear to be any troublesome signs. No mess, no blood, no muffled yelling. And then your eyes fall to the safe tucked ominously away.

Doubt and uncertainty chill through your veins and your heart nearly skips a beat when you reach for the safe handle and twist. The handle doesn’t budge — the safe is still locked tight. That’s good…right?

If nothing has been stolen then maybe nothing bad has happened to… well, whoever is supposed to be here today. You were expecting Johnson to be here, but he obviously isn’t. It would not be anyone else’s turn again until after him so who –… Your stomach lurches at the thought.

…Is Haytham a part of the rotation?

As the head of the estate, it hardly makes sense for him to take an entire day off to sit with you in a room. You turn to look back at the open door. Just outside it and down the hall is Haytham’s room. And he _did_ said to come to him if there were trouble.

Several tentative steps later, you move to the outside of the double doors to Haytham’s room. You have no reason to be worried about it, and yet the idea of knocking on his door fills you with a vexing amount of dread. You maneuver your thumbs to crack the knuckles on each hand – a bad habit from your younger days that comes out every now and again — and take a quick breath.

You knock three times on Haytham’s door, mind fluttering with possibilities. He could be irritated and disheveled; a complete mess being woken before he is ready. No, that’s not right. Haytham _seethes_ the need for punctuality and order. He is definitely a morning person, either naturally or by force of will. And yet, nothing, no response! What on earth is going on?

Wicked temptation shocks through your mind straight to your hand. You are grasping the door handle before you even realize it. What if you just…

The door easily glides open, and when your nose catches that scent again, that smell that is so unmistakably _him_ , your mind reels. This is a bad idea. Definitely a bad idea.

 

Then again, you had only been forbidden to enter a room if it was locked. You take a step inside.

“Haytham? It’s me. Are you here?”

Silence greets you again.

“I’m coming in, Haytham. Just say something if you need me to leave.” You’re fairly sure the room is empty now, and you close the door behind you. That sound of the door catching shut against its twin sends a torrid thought through your mind.

Well, you _are_ alone in Haytham’s room. The door is unlocked. What harm could there be in treating yourself to a little tour of what makes the oh-so-high-and-mighty Mister Kenway tick?

Eying the door one last time, you step lightly toward Haytham’s study. This is exactly where you had been the first time the two of you spoke privately in his chambers. The curiosity of his reading selection had been nipping at you for some time and now you are finally going to satisfy it.

Unfortunately, it’s hardly exciting.

Most of the literature here is dense. Very dense. He is definitely well educated, but you can’t help feeling some of these readings are a bit grandiose. Closer inspection shows that the bookshelf is regularly dusted — not terribly unexpected that he’s a cleanly man. Your fingers caress the spine of a few of them: books on past wars, law books, several poetry works, and, to your pleasant surprise, a number of anti-slavery tracts.

Some of the spines are well worn – personal favorites or references of his, surely. Others, as you open them, have a stiff bind that has yet to be broken in. Maybe some of these are just for show, or an indication of the reading wants of a busy… whatever it is he does for a living.

You place the book back into the shelf neatly and look around his study. There’s little fuss here. It is definitely a place to work and shelve work for later development. There's a few navigation instruments to the side of the room, a partial map of the discovered parts of the new world, and an assortment of quills and ink fountain.

Decidedly, you were skating around the other piece of the room that held interest for you – his desk. There are a lot of things to glean from a person’s working space, even one as clean as Haytham’s. For one, he likes things to be in order. Big surprise.

His chair, though, that’s what catches your eye. It’s a high-backed desk chair, with curved arms and a plush, wide leather seat. The color on it has faded in the center from its original dark mahogany to a lighter, warm brown. It paints a lovely picture of the man’s muscular frame wearing away at the seat, absorbed in work hour after hour.

You fight the temptation to sit in it for just about a second before your rear meets the padded seat. It’s roomy. _Very_ roomy. Even the space under his desk seems comically large when you sit against it.

You cross your legs under the desk and take in the expanse of it. Even here, _especially here_ , the smell of him fills your senses and you don’t seem to mind it. There are a few moments more spent examining his quills – he takes excellent care of them – before you spot the drawers attached to his desk.

You bite your lip in a playfully naughty way and grasp the drawer handle and pull. It doesn’t budge. Damn, none of them do. Each one is locked tight, and that’s fine. You aren’t here to meddle with too many things, just to see whatever he has lying around. Although, you can think of a few drawers that aren’t locked.

Stepping lightly from his study after making sure everything is back in place, you approach his bed and bedside chest of drawers. Your eyes are practically blinded by the sea of stark white linens folded neatly inside. You don’t touch them. No, you’re not here for _that_ , but it is satisfying to know that his need for order extends even to his undergarments.

He also has a canopy bed with a high arching headboard and matching footboard. Both are carved intricately and a dark, deep brown to match the rest of the furniture. If he chose his home furnishings, he really does have enviably good taste. Though, your appreciation of his bed is short-lived as your attention is drawn elsewhere — to another set of double doors tucked in the side of the room.

It doesn’t look like the doors to a balcony – they’re solid with no windows. Could that be a private washroom, perhaps? Only one way to find out.

You close the dresser drawers and move to set your eager hands on the handles of the door and twist. Success! It glides open easily. Your eyes widen at the room’s contents.

My, you wouldn’t have guessed it, but Haytham keeps a large selection of his beloved uniform stocked and neatly stored. You did suppose he couldn’t use the same uniform time and time again, but you hadn’t expected to see at least a half dozen of them quietly resting and ready to be worn. There are other clothes here as well, some formal, others more casual, folded across shelved tables inside. There are also boots lined up along the closet floor. It’s a deep, wide closet, easily accessible to change clothes inside it if needed.

Discovering this treasure trove of his has you smiling wide. Finally getting to know _some_ intimate detail about him makes you feel more at ease. But you just can’t help yourself taking things a bit further, stepping inside.

You had been thinking about it for a bit, maybe even longer than a bit. Perhaps you had been thinking it since the time he first came into your shop. It was a small, wicked, easily ignored idea at the time. But now… now the idea has a voice and it is _strong_.

Your fingertips hook into the sides of your trousers and your feet get to work slipping off your shoes. Things need to move along quickly before you start to process what a bad idea this is. Soon enough, you are standing in only your undershirt and underwear, folding your clothes to the side on the floor. And then you pick up your guilty pleasure.

Haytham always looked so damned… your mind searches for the right words. Intimidating? No, but yes. Haughty? Not quite. Regal?

 _Yes_ , that’s it. He always had a regal quality to everything he did. Sensible and orderly, always in command and steady-handed. You had wanted a taste of that – not quite of the man, but of his clothes.

It may be a rather strange, but it is a harmless pleasure. Unfolding his pants starts the first and hopefully last snag in your plans – they are much too large for you. Holding them up against your body confirms your thoughts. Maybe it won’t be that bad.

You slip in one leg and then the other and the second snag hits as quickly as the first. He’s too _damned tall_ as well. This is quickly losing appeal, but you trudge on anyway. You’ll need to be careful though not to wrinkle anything as you pull his trousers around your waist comically high so your feet show through the pant legs.

You’re just about to start searching for a belt when you hear a small sound. All of your impish glee stops and your ears strain to find the sound. Is that someone speaking? For the few moments it takes to listen in pained concentration, your heart seems to still and then rapidly beat when you confirm that _yes_ someone in the house and are speaking aloud. It may be down the hall or downstairs; you’re not sure.

Silently cursing and fumbling to get Haytham’s pants off, you do the unthinkable.

 **_Thump_**.

You stumble, a foot caught in a pant leg and fell hard on your knees. Whoever is talking has stopped.

_Shiiiiit._

Panicked and fear rising, you walk quietly on your knees, mentally praying to whichever deity will listen. Oh God, you’re wrinkling Haytham’s pants, but you swear if you get out of this alive you’ll do his laundry for as long as it takes.

In the closet doorway, you reach up and out, eyebrows furrowing hard and lips caught between your teeth in a hard line as you slowly, _slowly_ pull the handles to the closet shut. Haytham’s bedroom door is unlocked and if someone comes to investigate, they could easily report you if you’re strewn out in his closet.

Just need to sit tight and not make noise until whoever it is leaves. It could be William showing up late to his shift. The thought of him offers some comfort at first until you realize that William would be the first person to report your absence to his boss. If he comes here looking for Haytham…

Suddenly, it hits you.

You’re in _Haytham’s_ room. No one here is going to chance snooping around his things, let alone open his closet door. His men obey his every order and his servants probably know better than you do of that swooping trepidation and fear of impending death he can cause with just his voice.

If they want to investigate, they will have to cross their own apprehension and that’s not going to happen. Even if William wants to report in, he would see Haytham is not here and set out to find him, giving you plenty of opportunity to get dressed and slink back to your room.

You’re going to be fine. You still need to not get caught, but you will be fine.

Inside the closet, sitting with your knees tucked under you, you are still for what feels like an eternity just listening. Listening and waiting and trying to soothe your heartbeat. The door to the bedroom opens without hesitation.

_Damn._

You expect to hear a voice calling out, something to indicate who the person is and what they are looking for. They’re brave, whoever they are to enter this bedroom unannounced.

“Whoever is in that closet.”

_Oh, no._

“You have until the count of three to show yourself before I open fire.”

 _Haytham_.


	5. Chapter 5*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every action has a consequence.

Of all the people who come and go from the estate, of all the servants and workers and loyal dogs, it simply _must_ be Haytham returning just in time to see to your gruesome murder in his bedroom. Not even a week after his less-than-courteous extension of employment, at that!

Within the suffocating dark of the closet, your body fails to respond to your mind’s pleas for movement. It could be the fear, embarrassment, or pure shock of it all causing your body to shut down. Even your dry throat, knotted and thick from fear, halts you from speaking. And your mind heightens your torture, playing the mental image of a bullet from ripping through your body and ending your life.

“One.”

The need for survival screams out over the fear seeped bone-deep within you.

“Haytham, i-it’s me! I’m in here!” Each body part feels disjointed and unresponsive — the wires of your mind are sparking and firing commands, but your hands continue their trembling and your body shakes seated atop your legs.

“Two.”

He’s not going to stop. The few stunned milliseconds you have drag on for too long. He’s serious. He’s going to kill you. You’re going to die here if you don’t move immediately.

“I’m c-coming out! Please, don’t shoot!” Before you even finish your sentence, you’re throwing the doors open in a desperate attempt to cling to life, your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

And there he stands, your employer and now potentially your murderer. The grip on his pistol holds his aim true and unwavering. Even the look on his face seems to be an extension of the deadly intent behind his weapon, unperturbed to your wide-eyed and panic-stricken expression. He may as well be offering you a quill to write with – his face is a frightening mask of indifference and focused intent.

“Exit the closet,” he says with a tone you haven’t quite heard before. “Slowly.”

Your body, seemingly unmotivated by your own mental commands, follows his every word and begins to slowly hobble out on trembling hands and knees. If Haytham is surprised by the sight of you on your knees in his trousers, he doesn’t show it. He does seem to assess your lack of weapons, among other things, and keeps his gun trained on the closet as he enters it, sweeps for additional people, and returns.

Your cheeks are flushed crimson when he holsters his gun and he sighs heavily. He leaves the closet doorway and moves toward his study wordlessly, boots thumping softly on the floor. Each step serves as a grim reminder of the power and authority this man holds over you. Had  you made a single wrong move just seconds ago, you would likely be dead. And he would be a most uncaring executioner. The thought alone turns your stomach, and you wrap your arms around your midsection — partly to comfort your frayed nerves and partly to cover your lower half.

He returns shortly, leaving you little time to process your emotions.

The soft scrape of wood on wood causes you to look up. Haytham appears to be placing one of his study’s chairs on the ground a few feet away from you. …Is that supposed to be for you? You still have yet to make a move to stand — you don’t trust your legs and you don’t trust yourself to do anything he hasn’t expressly given you permission to do.

Your lips part and close in silent question as you watch him move. He leaves again to make another trip into his study, returning this time with a small end table, and setting it next to the chair smoothly before leaving again. What on earth is he doing?

The thick layer of fear that’s clinging to your heart begins to clear away as fretful curiosity flutters on top of it. This time when he leaves, you adjust the pants around your waist, sitting on your legs and smoothing down your hair to try to prepare for… whatever is going to happen. This appears to be his final trip as he returns and sits with a mug and bottle in hand, releasing another a long, weary sigh.

“Explain yourself.” He pours himself a drink and settles into the plush seating. When he speaks, even as flat and unamused as his tone is, you cannot help flinching.

It’s hardly the time for a relaxing beverage, but you won’t turn down an opportunity at keeping your life. Allowing you to speak before your gruesome murder shows he is either kind beyond compare or a master of torture.

You swallow hard and speak, motioning to the closet. “Of course, Haytham. If I may just get dress–”

“You may _explain yourself_ and nothing else,” he cuts in, voice lowering a few octaves and sounding decidedly dissatisfied with the attempt at steering the conversation elsewhere. It shakes you to your core and you visibly shiver.

A shuddering breath fills your lungs to steady yourself, eyes closed. When you open them, you catch those frightful sky-hued eyes drilling into you. He sits with an erect posture and he stares down his nose at you as he drinks. Light tapping of his finger against the arm of the chair snaps you back to attention.

Keeping him waiting will only hasten the end of you, so you explain. You explain everything. From the cut on your hand and William’s involvement; the two wonderful days off with Thomas and Shay you had while healing; waking up this morning with no one guarding you; and finally your adventure into Haytham’s room when you looked to satisfy your boredom.

His gaze remains on you throughout your lengthy explanation and thereafter. The way he’s seated now, upright and resolute while you rest on your knees, carries a remarkably powerful effect that makes you feel smaller than usual.

“While that was lovely and fetchingly informative, I want to know why you are wearing my clothes.” He sets down his drink and sits with his leg folded at the knee, leaning back and lacing his hands on his lap.

Oh. Yes, you suppose that would be something critical to explain that has been left out of the discussion.

“Well, I…” Fear gives way as the humiliation seeps back into your body and the weight of it settles in your chest. It’s a dizzying struggle just to string words together into a sentence. “…I wanted to try on your clothes because I admire… the way they look.”

“You admire the way they look.” He cants his head as he repeats, rolling your words over his tongue. He chuckles softly and what had been a flat line of his lips now quirks upward slightly. “I think that may be the first time I have ever heard someone tell me that. And here I was thinking you were some kind of perverted degenerate.”

His gaze travels over to the closet, glancing over a disheveled suit or two and your own tossed aside clothes before he settles back on you. Is that the beginnings of a grin working at his lip? “Still, terribly  unprofessional of you to go through your employer’s belongings at the first opportunity.”

Those words sink in your stomach like stone. You nod weakly after a moment. “Yes. Sorry, Haytham.”

The grin breaks wide into laughter. He is _laughing._ It’s a soft, rolling sound that causes your cheeks and ears to burn in equal measure — your cheeks from his embarrassing amusement and your ears from echoing the sound of his genuine entertainment even after the room plunges into silence again.

His tongue darts out to wet the corner of his mouth, eyes alight with what you can only hope is playful and not deadly intentions. It’s a look you have seen that before. Thomas and Shay had given you that look often enough – usually just before you were the butt of one of their jokes.

All traces of his smile fade away, despite his earlier laughter. He unfolds his leg from his lap and leans forward. “Very well. If your curiosity has brought you to this point, then I will satisfy it.”

Is that so? Maybe you will be able to get out of this with minimal harm. If he only wants to enjoy your humiliation, that’s manageable. A very fair trade in exchange for your life.

Haytham is still leant forward, elbows on his knees, and staring at you in amused scrutiny. Your heart skips beats when you notice he’s looking at your lower half _very_ intently. Clearing your throat in hopes of redirecting his attention, you speak. “May I… May I get dressed now, Haytham?”

His eyes snap back up to you and it takes everything you have not to show your tense surprise. “Yes _._ I should think it is high time you get dressed.”

Thank goodness. Enduring whatever torturous punishments he has planned will be much easier with proper clothes on. Bunching his too-long pants around your waist, you enter his closet and pick up your clothes, sorting out your overshirt and vest.

“Wrong one.”

You look over to Haytham who is still comfortably seated.  The confusion on your features only makes him give a complacent grin. Slowly, he shakes his head. “That’s the wrong outfit. You _did_ say you wanted to dress up like me, yes?”

Your skin prickles at the thought. No, he couldn’t possibly…

“So, _get dressed,_ ” he repeats.

The man has your stomach doing somersaults by voice alone. Any more emotional strain and you weren’t sure which would give out first: your heart, your stomach, or your head. He wants you to continue where you left off, to keep dressing yourself in his clothing, and to do it while he has a front-row seat. This is cost to having your itch of curiosity scratched, it seems.

There’s little option but to oblige Haytham’s request as your hands travel to adjust the trousers on your waist. The sensation kindles a warm, tight feeling at your core that has you shivering and unexpectedly excited. Just like before, they are much too long and too loose for your smaller body, and you can feel Haytham’s eyes on your back as you search the closet for a belt or a sash — anything to hold these damned pants at the right height.

Finally, a collection of a few coiled leather belts comes into view high on a shelf. Your fingertips glance and grab one after a few jumping attempts on the tips of your toes. You quickly slip it around your waist and notch it into place. The effect isn’t pretty, but it will have to do. The sooner you get dressed, the sooner you can leave, the sooner you can put this whole embarrassing affair behind you.

Haytham witnesses your struggling efforts for a touch longer than he can bear. You hear a soft rustle of fabric and turn to see him out of his chair and moving toward you. Your heartstrings strain when he closes the distance and enters the closet with you – there is ample enough space, but it feels terribly snug with him so close.

“ _This_ is rather insulting,” he begins, guiding a bold hand to your waist and sliding a finger under your belt to tug it up for further scrutiny. His lip curls in distaste. “Does this look like the way I dress?”

He doesn’t wait for your response and approaches your back, his fingers still hooked and gliding along the belt’s edge. Soon, his hands settle on your hips to guide those trousers up. Hands of his are precise, maneuvering the cloth with practiced ease and undoing your hasty handiwork. You stiffen automatically as the cloth rubs across your skin, those hands of his skittering about to correct your mistakes.

Haytham makes a soft displeased murmur.

Before you can question him, his hands grasp the waist of the breeches and roll them up high, fabric digging into the apex of your thighs. You softly gasp in surprise, raising yourself to the tips of your toes to escape the pressure of the fabric against you.

The faint beginnings of a question on your lips are snuffed out entirely when his hands continue rhythmic upward jerks that has your sex throbbing in response. The unrelenting pressure sees to your mouth occupying itself with breathy groans instead of questions. Your right hand flutters uselessly against his clenched one — your softly begging pats for release do little to dissuade him as he leans in close.

His breath is hot against your ear as he purrs. “These pants were far too loose on you before. It will be difficult to get them to fit quite right. What do you think now? Too snug?”

You can practically feel him smiling against you when you nod to his question. He knows very well that it is much too close to you. It is not uncomfortable, but the pressure of it makes you shudder in ways you wish you wouldn’t.

He tsks his tongue and you feel the pressure subside, his nimble fingers moving to secure the trousers and belt in place. “Very well. This height will have to do.”

The encounter has only been a few seconds long and already everything just south of your stomach feels an unsteadying mix of tightness and throbs. What the hell is he thinking? It has been clear that there would be a price to pay for your snooping, but just how much is he charging? There’s hardly time to register it all before Haytham moves on to the next piece of clothing.

This suggestively indecent behavior of Haytham’s is unlike anything you have come to expect from him. He has always been proper and gentlemanly — and vaguely threatening. But here he is now moving himself to kneel before you with your hands on his wide shoulders for balance as he slides on one boot and then the other. And the way he caresses your legs as he slides each boot up your calf, kneading and massaging your flesh through breeches fabric, only scatters your thoughts from apt formation.

For someone who can threaten violence with just a glance, he is remarkably skilled at instilling pleasure with the slightest touches.

And then he’s on his feet again, towering over you with a look of mild interest, and he continues this way for so long. Constantly working you into a heated tizzy, stopping his touches just as you ease yourself enough to enjoy it, and then moving on to another part of your body to begin winding you up all over again.

This is his torturous game – dressing you and lavishing your body with attention to get you squirming – using your previously innocent yearning for his clothing and turning it into something far more salacious. It’s hard to decide if this behavior is despicable or temptingly stimulating.

Your cautious mind and wanting body are locked in check with each other while indecision runs rampant. The litany of beats against your chest from your heart threatening escape and that heat causing your thighs to shift in need has you questioning, though. The bubbling excitement in you is undeniable. Is there _really_ any harm in satisfying it?

Of course there is! Attempts at sating your curiosity has you in this position in the first place! Giving in to base desires will only serve to complicate things. And nothing good can come of playing his game. You must resist this!

_And yet…_

Your body is awfully pliant to his every instruction. A soft tap of your underarms has you raising them up to slip on his waistcoat. Even as you begin to button it, another tap against your hands has you lowering them. No, no. _He_ will be the one to dress you from start to finish.

He moves to your back and his hands glide over your hips to your front, beginning to fasten button after button. There’s warm, even breath on your neck that’s almost as distracting as the steady pace of his hands traveling up your body with each button. Up over your stomach, just under your ribs, and then… He hesitates. The buttons across your breasts remain unfastened and you mentally groan, mouth dry with anticipation of his touch.

Silent seconds pass before he resumes his steady pace and your eyes flutter closed in the sheer delight of feeling his warm, heavy hands against the fabric of your shirt. From the way his arms are encircling you, his hands are pressed closer to you than needed and it’s nothing that your body has an issue with. Once finished, his hands are on you again, intimately smoothing down areas that have become wrinkled. Down your sides, across your thighs, along your back.

A gasp and breathy moan come from your lips when he quickly pulls at the adjusting strap on the back of the vest – fabric cinches and embraces your body tightly enough to hold your breasts close. Again, he seems to insist a tight fit on you.

“Something to say?”

You shake your head to answer him and to try dispelling the ringing of his voice in your ears. The tingling sensation across your skin has your mind’s warning voice growing fainter and fainter. The feel of his hands guiding, pressing, and pulling you into form is curiously arousing. You bite your lip hard. Just _try_ to behave yourself. You only need to endure his silly game long enough to leave and _only_ for that long. You may tend to your own needs after.

The more intimate parts of dressing are over now. He slips you into his overcoat – something so tragically large that no amount of adjusting will cause it to fit – and buttons it slowly across your breast to let it flare apart at your waist. After, he circles from your back to your front and looks you over appraisingly. The way he’s gazing at you, like an art piece nearing completion, sends a spike of pleasure through your spine.

Your hands cease their fidgeting when his warm touch adjusts the coat collar. You tilt your chin to give him better access, revealing more of your bare neck. He must have liked that from the way his eyebrows flexed just slightly. You inwardly smirk and scold yourself just as quickly. Getting sucked into his game is a bad idea. An appealing, quite possibly pleasurable, bad idea.

His warm, rough fingers delve between the overcoat and your undershirt, gently rubbing around your collarbones and your breath hitches. Your shirt collar pops out from its prison along with Haytham’s fingers in answer as to why they were there in the first place.

“Remain still,” he commands and circles to your back again and soon you feel the whisper of fabric against your neck. Bodily reaction urges you to jump at the surprise, but you hold fast, careful to follow his instruction. One of Haytham’s cravats now sits about your neck. A cautious hand reaches up to touch at the soft lace-like fabric; it glides easily between your fingers.

His hand bumps into yours at your front and he scoffs. “Are simple directions the hardest to follow?”

You drop your hand sheepishly and he fastens a ribbon to rest on top of his cravat. He adjusts your collars a bit more and his hands leave. This whole time there has been a part of him on you — his hands, his chest, his breath. But for several agonizing moments, there is nothing.

Just as you open your mouth to speak, a heavy weight sits on your shoulders. It’s his cloak, another piece of his ensemble that is comically large when draped over you. Still, he fastens it from behind and guides you to face him.

“I think,” he starts, eyes taking you in from head to toe. “This is as good as it will get.”

There’s some awkward shuffling from those damned boots threatening to slide down to your ankles as he guides you out of the closet. A few steps more and you are both standing in front of a large mirror hanging just above his dresser. And you have to say, what you see is startling.

As nice as the clothes feel on your body, the way they look on you has you smiling endlessly. Yes, they’re much too big, but finally you’re able to see this stylishly clever outfit on you. The other surprising sight is the reflection of Haytham’s prim form standing erect with his arms at his back — he’s looking pleased as well.

“Thank you, Haytham. This isn’t anything like I expected.” You turn to the side and admire the way the coat and cloak drape over your shoulders. Yes, you could definitely get used to this look. Maybe after this folly is forgotten you can ask him where he has his clothes made.

“Do not thank me just yet.” Your vision is temporarily obscured from Haytham dropping something onto your head. Gingerly, your hands rise to feel at the object, gripping its sides and tilting it out of your line of sight.

_Oh, my._

There’s an unexpected gift of his hat on your head. You gently grip the sides of the tricorn hat and slide it back. The outfit had looked nice before, but now it feels absolutely stunning. No wonder he never removed his headpiece – it definitely completes the outfit.

A few minutes more admiring yourself in the mirror pass before Haytham asks if you are ready for your own clothing. Yes, you are ready, but goodness, the look and feel of your own clothes will fail to even compare for some time to come. The two of you return to the closet to begin disrobing. Even here, Haytham insists on helping you out of the clothing he so perfectly placed on you.

Each piece comes off carefully. Naturally, Haytham takes his hat back first, adjusting it into place by its corners. Cloak and coat come off next. The cravat and tied ribbon fall away, waistcoat following after. He kneels down to shy your feet out of his boots and stacks them with the rest of his collection nearby.

Your own pile of folded clothes lies in wait nearby — just need to remove these trousers and get dressed. A spark of a naughty thought flashes across your mind, but you dismiss it quickly. Having Haytham help you put on your own clothes isn’t the best idea, tempting as it is. Instead, you begin working off the belt at your waist, but the warm insistence of his hands shies you away. Yes, even here — perhaps especially here — he is going to undress you. The belt comes undone and his hands roll the trousers down your thighs to bring your undergarments into view.

Then you both hear it. A soft sound, wet and sticky. He hears it and you _feel_ it, staring in wide-eyed shock. And then you both see it. The crotch of your underwear is soaked with your arousal and the fabric of the trousers is noticeably wet. Embarrassment washes through you more hotly than any amount of sensual excitement.

Haytham’s hands are still, halting their descent at mid-thigh and tightly coiled at the hem of the breeches. The pointed crown of his hat is the most you can see from his knelt position and your mind swirls with images of him looking less than pleased.

Even through the guilty embarrassment of being caught like this, nethers wet and wanting, your skin tingles in pleasurable hot waves. Your mind, however, realizes the severity of the situation and stumbles for the words to rectify it. Thoughts refuse to take proper form and you’re left babbling half-excuses and half-apologies before Haytham tires of it.

“I see you have been enjoying yourself,” he begins lightly drumming his fingers against your bare thigh. “You’ve no need to apologize, but I must say it is most unexpected. To think that mere clothing would have such an effect on you.”

“It’s not the clo—” Your words fall short when he tilts his face into view. He’s still knelt at your feet with a tortuously close view of your parted legs that makes your chest flutter. He knows _very_ well that it isn’t the feel of clothing along your skin that has you mentally begging for escape to tend to your bodily wants. He knows and still insists on this game of teasing.

Haytham seems disinterested in allowing you to finish your sentence as he sags away the trousers and helps you gingerly step from them. He stands and holds the garment up, examining the sheening fabric at its dampest spot. An uneasy sound comes from your throat. It’s no small spot either — a shift of your thighs shows that even now amongst embarrassing perusal your arousal continues.

“I suppose I will need to have these cleaned.” His tongue rolls across the inside of his cheek as his free hand glides to your waist, fingers rubbing lightly at the waistband of your panties. “And what of your soiled knickers? These should be cleaned as well, don’t you think?”

The abashing heat of the situation has not quite left you yet as you stare at him meekly, only able to nod your agreement under his soft touch. Yes, those panties will need cleaning, as will your nethers, and your filthy dirty mind will need a good scrubbing on top of that.

Every moment spent here threatens to slicken your thighs further. The throbbing between your legs has reached a dangerous height, threatening to climb even higher with his hands this close and this intent on rubbing your bare skin. It’s a dizzying sensation that has the closet feeling much smaller and has you eying the exit. Haytham is the only thing standing in the way now.

“Excellent.” He sets aside the damp trousers before positioning both hands at your hips. The movement is quick and steady, and the warmth of his fingertips sliding over skin and fabric has you tensing under his touch. Those powerful hands shift your weight and has Haytham guiding you from standing to being seated on one of the waist-height laundry tables that houses his belongings, your back flush against the wall. There’s only time enough to eek out a small noise of surprise as he positions himself between your thighs. From here, even in the dim light of the closet, he has quite the view of your underwear clinging wetly to your mound.

“My, my. That is a sight. Sodden through and through. What sort of wanton thoughts occupy that mind of yours, hm?” He smoothly tilts his head as his eyes glide down your form, making no attempt to hide his hungry gaze. “You have the appearance of someone of scholarly and practical sorts. And yet here you are, quivering and wet from a mere change of clothes. _Very_ curious.”

“If… If you are to hold me responsible for reacting to your teasing, then you have no one to blame but yourself for beginning this brazen affair.” The man certainly has no room to talk considering this whole lewd game of building your arousal is his concoction. Even if your body is yearning for the touch of his hands and the ghost of his breath against your neck just once more, you did not initially request to be part of this strange game of his. Though with each passing moment, you are finding little reason not to play.

He leans in close, perhaps close enough now to see the thorough blush on your cheeks, and sets his piercing gaze on you as he speaks. “And should you find my choice of sentencing too _brazen_ , then you may blame yourself for your trespass.”

Oh. Right. You cast your gaze to the side and away from his own, but even then you catch a smile forming his lips. He does have a point. The only reason you are here now is because of your own actions.

“But you make a fair point. Perhaps my punishment did not quite fit the crime.” He chuckles lightly to your emphatic head shaking. “Perhaps I should seek other ways to encouraging appropriate behavior.”

Your gaze slowly returns to him. There’s more question in your eyes now than hesitant arousal. The look he returns is one you’ve seen before on a cold night or two. Normally, any man you had a night’s pleasure with had a distinct look in his eyes before engaging in indecent action. Hungry, searching, almost wild with desire.

Haytham’s gaze is unnervingly unfamiliar. There is hunger there, no doubt. But atop that, there is a layer of self-confidence that has your core doing those increasingly persistent flips. His gaze, confident as it is, is not quite foolish or obnoxious in its intensity. It is simply potent. Irksome only in its ability to leave you rather speechless when in close quarters.

The feeling of his hand ghosting along your thigh snaps you back to your senses. His voice and the words it caresses just about send your head reeling. The inquiry is quiet, firm, and delectable.

“Would you allow me to tend to the mess I have made?”

Tend to his mess? Your brow furrows in thought for a moment before your raise your query. “I… would like my clothes back if that is what you mean.”

His chuckle is light and short. He closes his eyes and slowly shakes his head in answer.

“If I may,” he begins, removing his hand from your thigh and moving to gently run his fingertips along the hand of yours currently gripping the edge of the table hard enough to discolor your knuckles. The warmth of his touch eases the tension a moment and all but melts the tightness away when his palm covers the backs of your fingers fully.

“I seem to have caused you no small part of displeasure,” he gingerly pulls your hand away from the table’s edge, massaging your palm with the pad of his thumb. “And for that I would like to apologize. I _had_ merely wished to grant you your desires while entertaining myself, but it seems I have gotten carried away.”

Somewhere in the back of your mind, alarm bells are ringing, but through this haze of sheer _want_ , they are quite hard to hear.

His hand rubs its way to your wrist, holding you firmly before guiding your own fingertips across your outer thigh, gliding up and over the soft skin found there and toward your inner thigh. The movement is slow, lazy, and intense with your short gasps for breath when he guides your hand to where your thighs meet. There is abundant slick found there through the veil of your panties from your earlier _activity_ and he makes no small movement in making you realize just how wet you have become as a result.

Your shoulders shudder and you bite your lip to keep from any indecent exclamation as you feel yourself up to the apex of your thighs. A soft sigh is exhaled when he angles your hand sharply, curling your fingers along the folds of your wet heat.

“And if you will allow me…”

He trails off, controlling your hand with his own to get your fingers swirling and delving further underneath to feel between your legs and the sodden tabletop. Your lower half keens against your fingers, too needy for pleasure, too tightly wound to bear much more. A soft breathy sound escapes your lips and you turn your head to the side, eyes shut.

“…I will only use the best tools available to ensure your satisfaction.”

His hand guides your own away from your mound, even through your meek attempts at keeping your hand in place and your soft huff of frustration. The muscles in your arm relax. It is apparent that his man’s only goal today is to see you teased to no end. Even by your own hand.

You flex your thigh muscles as your lower half wriggles against the cool, smooth tabletop. Yes. Definitely wet. And _definitely_ hard to ignore. With the danger now passed, maybe if you could move just the right way, you could get yourself off — even just a little — before he does whatever nonsense he’s speaking of. With your eyes closed, it’s a little easier to drown out his overwhelming presence. May even be able to —

You open your eyes wide at the sensation along your wet fingertips. Haytham’s lips are carefully wrapped around your sticky index finger, eyes closed in practiced ease at his task. Slowly, he descends to the knuckle and undulates his tongue underneath with strong, gentle suction. The act of sucking on another’s fingers is indecent enough, but he had very carefully coated your hands in your own slick before —.

And it hits you. Like a god-damned ton of bricks, it hits you. The _tool_ of his he wants to use.

“H-Haytham,” you start, but he’s already moving on to your second finger. He carefully licks at your middle digit tip, tasting and swirling his tongue across it before licking on your ring finger as well. Your mind is feeling particularly useless in forming words in response to this sight. To this _feeling_.

The prim and proper Haytham Kenway is taking two of your fingers into the warmth of his mouth and _good God_ that tongue of his is making it hard to think, let alone speak. Whether he senses your mental distress or completed his cleaning task, you can’t be sure. But the cool air of the closet tingles across your digits as they are slipped from his lips.

His gaze is even, far too calm for someone engaging in such licentious activities. In such an enclosed space, too. But that alluring look in his eyes is only complimented by the timbre of his voice.

“Do you find the arrangement _agreeable_?” The question is asked with a small smile, his soft lips kiss your fingertips delicately just before he guides your hand back to your side.

Your mouth opens and sounds fail to emerge. The attempt to swallow the knot forming in your throat is a failed task as well.

This is a bad idea. _A terrible, awful idea._

And yet… denying his request doesn’t even cross your mind; your body is a wound cord on the verge of snapping and you are craving release. Grateful for the chance to be able to decide what happens to you, _for once_ , you make a demand of your own in shaky breaths.

“Yes, you may. You must… be thorough, however.” The command begins strong, but subsides into a barely audible whisper. Watching his face shift from playfully teasing to bedroom-eyed lusting over the course of just a few words has robbed you of your ability to speak. Instead, you feel your core throb in excitement.

“ _Thorough_?” He repeats with London-accented tongue, rolling your words and their implication in his mouth like candy. That dark, knowing look of his has an electric effect on your skin, goosebumps forming all over. “Of course. I would do nothing less.”

The only response you can muster is a lusty shudder. And that only has his satisfied grin growing wide as he slowly removes his hat and sets it beside you atop some folded clothes. His hands toy with your waistband a moment before hooking his thumbs in and peeling them down, revealing the slippery strings of arousal that cling to the fabric. Your breath hitches in your throat at the cooler air and freedom from a fabric prison. Haytham glides the wet garment down and off your ankles leaving you bare and wanting.

His warm hands gently rub the expanse of your bare hips, kneading and squeezing in tender places before he lifts and shifts your lower half closer to the table’s edge. There’s an unpleasant feeling of pooled slickness that’s gliding across your seated rear, but the caress of his hands soon fade that from your mind. He fondles his way down to your knees, stroking the caps before curling around to their back and to pull your legs apart.

He descends smoothly to kneel at a comfortable height for what is to come and shows no hesitation in his stated task. The sensation of his broad, warm tongue lapping at the slick that has trailed down your thighs has your leg jolting a bit too sharply in reaction. Even through your soft gasp and fretfully whispered apologies, he pays you little heed.

Instead, gently purred words of encouragement tickle the soft, sensitive skin your thighs as he moves his mouth along. Those hands of his even guide your knees over his shoulders, heels digging into the clothed expanse of his back for leverage when he resumes tasting all you have to offer. Taking thoroughness to new heights, he licks and sucks and nibbles his way up the apex of one wet thigh and then the other, ceaseless in his cleansing until he is satisfied. The hotness of his breath lingers against your skin and you tuck your lip between your teeth from the sensation.

Not even ten minutes ago you had a bottomless well of distrust for this man who now… well, now seems unable to get enough of tasting of you judging from the languid, deep strokes of his tongue against your thigh. Each pass, each hot puff of his breath has you straining against the table and against your better judgment.

Soon, he leaves your thigh with an open-mouthed kiss and examines his handiwork. It’s an unbearable tease that leaves you wanting for more contact, more heat, more pleasure. You whimper softly and shift against the table. Those grey blue eyes are focused on you instantly, conveying dark lust as his tongue darts out to lick his already-wet lips. The effect has your legs tensing in need.

“Patience,” he says with a small smile. “I’ll get the job done.”

And still, he waits a moment longer, eyes searching you as he prepares his assault. Relief hits you hard and you cant your head back when his mouth begins lapping at your folds, wet huffs of air tickling against you. Your teeth release your bitten-back moans as he tastes you, running his tongue along your swollen clit and back down again.

The hands that had been resting on your thighs massage their way closer to your core, fingertips spreading you gently to make way for his searching tongue. Fingertips probe and massage at your entrance, coupled with his lips wrapping hungrily on your clit. He alternates his attentions: laving your pleasurable button with licks and sucks one moment with his hands teasing your opening — and then switching to use his lips and tongue to taste your wet heat, thumb and forefinger massaging and tugging at clit with building pleasure that has you just on the incomplete side of release.

Lowly purred encouragement between sucks of your clit has your hips arching automatically toward his mouth for more. He seems to revel in the action, watching you mewl and twist for more pleasure when he spends even a moment with his mouth away from you. The air is thick with you voicing your pleasure, cursing and praising his name in breathy gasps and moans. You can’t keep it bottled if you tried. You guide your fingers along his smoothly tied back tresses, back arched and eyes closed as you try to coax him closer.

“Is there something you want?” That tongue darts across your sensitive bud once, twice, three times before you keen and he stops, speaking again. “Something you need from me?”

You nod. By god, you nod quicker than you ever have in your life. And _still_ he teases.

“My apologies, I cannot seem hear you.”

“Yes!” Pride has completely evaporated to a lusty haze. Anything for penetration, for release. Your body is craving it and refuses to be denied. “Haytham! _Please_ , I need it. I need more. Please, do not st--ah!”

And his mouth is on you again before you can even finish your words. The pad of his tongue swirls against your opening, tracing around the outline before delving deep for more of your taste. He’s rumbling low groans against you now, vibrations sending you into uncontrollable shivers.

You squirm under his touch, eyes closed in pleasure and your hips rocking needily into his mouth. Finally, he gives you what you need, his middle digit swirling your slick heat before burying itself knuckle-deep within you. The response is electric and your hands clench themselves in his hair, perhaps a tad too tightly. But he continues his intensifying pleasure without pause.

Haytham takes his time using his finger to explore your depths despite your pleasured cries. He strokes down and in small thrusts, eying you carefully to ensure there is no discomfort. Quite the opposite, actually. Your face is a heady mix of needy pleasure and your body is eagerly begging for more with each lustful thrust of your hips.

A smile spreads across his lips after he sees you so pliant and willing, lust-addled out of your mind. The thick finger inside you swirls as he turns his wrist, curling and stroking up instead of down and hitting even more sensitive nerves.

The throbbing in your core builds and tightens, just on the cusp of spilling over and you rake your nails through his silky tresses, his hair just barely tied back. The look on his face now is one of calm focus. If it were not for the way he periodically loses himself, noted by a louder-than-usual pleasured groan or overeager thrust, you would think Haytham weren’t enjoying himself. Perhaps if he keeps this up, you can lend him a hand with what simply must be a bothersome erection.

Before you can give the offer another thought, Haytham’s second digit press deep within you and gives you the push you crave, lower half arching hard against him in lustful need. Your back arches off the table, voice loud in pleasured song, as you find your release against his hungrily sucking mouth. The ends of both fingers strum against that coiled bundle of nerves as his thumb rubs your hooded button firmly. His sweet torture is enough on its own, but he sees you to a proper finish, wetly sucking his lips and tongue over both your clit and his thumb.

Even without worded warning, Haytham reads the signs of oncoming release your body shows. And he accepts without hesitation. His free arm lies across your stomach to keep you from wriggling yourself off the edge of the table in search for his skilled lips and tongue. The warmth of his mouth has coaxed and guided you from start to sticky finish and even now — extra wet and waning — he continues lapping at your sex.

Small electric aftershocks leave your tired body shaking as your chest heaves to catch your breath and slow your heartbeat. Here you are, lying back in Haytham’s bedroom closet with his mouth lapping your core clean and fingers buried deep to give you an orgasm loud enough to wake the dead two cities over. An unexpected turn of events to say the least.

Haytham looks pleased when he finally removes himself from between your legs. Though, not before giving your overly sensitive bud several deep licks and sucks that leave you whimpering and squirming in post-orgasm over-stimulation. A slightly clammy feeling along your upper back against the wall’s rapidly cooling surface confirms just how much you were sweating while at the mercy of his mouth.

The call of your name has you opening your eyes and staring into Haytham’s gaze as he now leans over your vulnerable position. His lips are looking delectably wet and full. Seeing part of your arousal on him stirs feelings inside you even so close after cumming. Slowly, gently, you tangle a hand in his mussed hair to bring him near enough to smell the heady scent of his breath.

There is only a moment’s hesitation, a flicking of his eyes from your gaze down to your lips and back again before he closes the distance. The taste of him mixed with your own essence is heaven on your tongue. Soft breaths and pants against each other in an now-uncomfortably-warm closet set the tone for bolder exploration. Your free hand travels from the tabletop to his chest and massages gently down his ribs, his stomach, his hip. And the way he sharply inhales, mid-kiss, at your touch only has you smiling wide. Seems he is rather receptive. You dare things a step further and glide your palm along his pelvis, but your hand is stopped just short of its prize.

His grip finds your wrist and firmly guides your hand away from his groin. Soon, the space between you grows too far for your lips to meet and he towers over you again, licking his lips and sounding barely restrained. “That is not required, I assure you.”

You tilt your head in question, chest rising and falling in short breaths. Did he not want his own pleasure? Beginning awkwardness aside, you are ready to give more — perhaps even receive more — pleasure with Haytham. The lowly-burning fire is sparking with curiosity to see in what other manner of ways he may be skilled.

“Should your needs rise again, you need only ask and we will be there to assist you.” The same grasping hand guides your wrist up to place a delicate kiss on the back of your fingers and hand. “But do understand that this is quite professional. Nothing more. Understood?”

This need hadn’t been quite what you were looking to have scratched, but the sheer satisfaction if it has you feeling deliciously hazy all the same. Professional or otherwise, being treated to such a delight is something you would not object to more of. You gently nod through your recovery, thighs finally stilling their delicious trembling.

Wait just a moment. Did he say _we_ ? Your mind backtracks through his words. Yes, he most definitely did. Does that mean the others are willing to see to other _professional_ duties? Your mouth parts to raise a question, but Haytham’s voice overpowers your lusty confusion. And sends it spiraling further.

“Excellent. I’m glad we are in agreement,” he says, easing himself from you and making his way through the closet. “You should get dressed. There’s still work to be done before the day’s end.”

And there goes that delectable feeling falling faster than a fledgling out of the nest. Even if it is in the interests of ‘professionalism,’ the man’s timing could be somewhat better.

“I believe you may have an easier time now without the distraction of fantasy? There is, as you recall, a book that requires your immediate attention.” The sentence is curt and to the point as he speaks and picks up your clothing. Once gathered, he kneels before you and coaxes you to stand on your unsteady legs. Those warm hands slip on your trousers and the fabric is cool enough to make you shiver at the contact. His roaming hands guide your trousers up and over your rear before securing your belt and buttons in the front.

He stands and takes a moment to straighten his own appearance after seeing to yours. The crisp, white handkerchief in his pocket is gently dabbed along still-wet his chin and lips. It’s a sight that causes you no small smile, even with Haytham staring down his nose at you.

“Do not get coy,” he warns as he lets down his mussed hair and begins to tie it up again. Shame he needs to look so prim and proper — he’s rather handsome with his hair down.

“Me, sir? Never.” You bite your lower lip to keep from saying anything to draw his attention and gingerly pick up his hat from the table. Once his hair is _perfectly_ in place, you hand it to him.

It’s not like it would be easy to forget the reason why you are here in the first place. …except for when Haytham had his mouth on you before. Yes, you _definitely_ forgot then. But now that he is being so, well, _Haytham_ , it’s much easier to resume that feeling of discontent when speaking with him. Even if he is being polite, he’s still an ass about it.

“Thank you,” he says, taking the hat from your grasp and affixing it properly by its points atop his head. That impartial, yet cordial, tone of his is especially irksome considering what’s just happened.

“You’re welcome,” you attempt to say equally impartially, though there’s a twinge of sarcasm you cannot mask. The afterglow of carnal pleasure is quickly fading and each moment spent in his company thereafter only serves as a reminder of your current position: that of an unwilling worker. Not quite a slave, but not exactly free. “I take it I am free to go?”

His inquisitive gaze returns to you. “I do not believe you are my prisoner. You did, after all, come into my quarters of your own volition.”

“Don’t get coy, Haytham,” you parrot his earlier warning and stride past, making for the closet door. “It’s not as though I would have come to this estate without the direct threat of harm looming over my head.”

“I assure you, I much prefer the carrot to the stick. But,” he says, closing the distance to you until the radiant warmth of his body is close enough to feel. His voice lowers a few octaves and his breath ghosts past your neck. “As you are well aware, I am capable of using both.”

Stunned into throat-knotted silence, you step outside the closet with him closing it behind you just as a series of frantic knocks echo out on his bedroom door. It swings open before Haytham can reply.

“Grand Master, I apologize for the intrusion, but the girl, she’s —”

“Standing _right_ here, William. No need to fret.” Haytham’s hand rests lightly on your shoulder as the flustered and slightly panicked form of William enters the room. Confusion mostly paints the poor man’s features now as he explains his search and failure to find you this morning. And you’re left standing rather awkwardly between the two men as they converse, your face a picture of guilty embarrassment.

Haytham nods along sympathetically to Johnson’s report. “My apologies, Will. I should have told you we were in my quarters ironing out some of the terms of the contract.”

Is _that_ what he calls it?

“Although, I do believe we are quite finished now, yes?” He asks, turning his gaze from William to you and that gentle expression is spreading through his features again. Shame you can’t return it. Instead of waiting for your reply, Haytham continues.

“William, kindly see to it that she is returned to her room and begins working. We should do our best to make up for lost time now these matters are clear.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.” William places his faith in Haytham’s words the way any subordinate would and turns his attention to you. Where before there had been hot alarm in his expression, cooling relief now rests there instead. He steps out of the doorway and gestures down the hall with a small smile. “Miss, if you are ready? I believe we have much to go over.”

When it is time for you to finally be acknowledged as opposed to merely being spoken about, you maintain your silence and wordlessly step from Haytham’s side to exit his quarters. Even out in the hall with William as he expresses his relief in finding you, you maintain your quiet and your mind wanders. What was that he had called Haytham just a moment before? _Grand Master_?

Christ, you may just be working for a group of cultists. That does sound like a title that some fanatics would bestow upon their leader. But at the very least, there is a lead now: the title of Grand Master. With a bit more digging, you may just find out what is happening here. And, if you’re smart about it, you’ll keep your life intact.

Though, as you walk the sensation of your trousers brushing against your thighs and rear serves to distract you even from your own thoughts. It seems rougher than usual, much more intimate. Your eyes widen at the realization. Haytham _still_ has your underwear. A glance over your shoulder shows his closed bedroom doors fading from sight with each step.

A Grand Master keeping a memento is hardly professional…


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad things happen to good people.

Grand Master. _Grand Master Haytham Kenway._

That certainly carries the ringing tones of overambition as much as anything else associated with the man. The way he dresses, carries himself, the way he _speaks_ all sing of the ambitions and meticulous actions of a dedicated man. There’s little doubt that whatever his title entails, he has earned it either through experience or bloodshed… Quite possibly both.

But what exactly does that title convey? What else could he be the master of aside from his own homestead? Even now, seated at your desk with William scribbling his own notes nearby, your mind wanders. Perhaps he is the heir to an ill-loved noble, come to seek his refuge and fresh start in the colonies? A doubtful quirk of your lips forms at the thought of a man _that_ proud running from anything.

You stroke an idle hand against the edges of the closed book in front of you. Hard to tell exactly how long the intentions of work have been sitting idly by, but from the blank pad of paper in front of you, it is painfully clear how much work has yet been done. Distraction proves a closer friend than concentration — getting anything done is rather hard while recalling the feel of the skillful mouth of the so-called Grand Master on your most intimate parts. The vividness of the fresh memories alone has you rubbing your thighs together in afterlust.

“Something the matter, lass?” William calls from his corner.

It’s the second time you’ll be spending a workday together and he seems keen to wash away the traces of last week’s hazardous translation attempt. Perhaps with a bit of directing, you could find relief from the thoughts of this morning’s erotic interruption.

“I’m just, ah, distracted I suppose?” Yes, distracted to tears with thoughts plagued by sex and questions. Mostly questions for the moment.

“Your task is not the easiest one,” he says with quiet scratches of quill on paper. “Take your time.”

An instruction easily given, but not easily followed. After several moments’ pause and unsuccessful attempts at concentration, you speak. “If it’s not too troublesome, William, perhaps you could… _help_ me with my distraction?”

He’s been seated in his usual spot in sunroom tending to guarding you from the morning til the afternoon, and looks up from his writing pad, eying you with friendly interest that spreads into a warm smile. “My aid is yours. Tell me what it is you need.”

There’s a lot of places to start. And after having had one-on-one time with each of your guards, each of your questions only pile to a wobbling height. But William seems agreeable and genuinely interested in seeing you through your mental interference. “I was wondering if you might answer some questions for me?”

“The last time we attempted that it ended disastrously, but I admire your curiosity.” You clench your hand at your nearly-forgotten injury. Ah, right. The last Q&A session _had_ gone over rather badly, but he sets his quill and pad aside just the same, and makes himself more comfortable. Perhaps he senses you have a list of issues to sort through. And he’d be correct. “What do you need to know?”

“Before, on my first night here, you had said that I should give you and your colleagues a chance…”

He nods. “I recall. And your question?”

“What… what sort of men are your colleagues, William?”

“Though I could describe them for you, I believe that to be a thing that is best seen and not told, ma’am.”

“William, please,” you say, attempting to hide the rising annoyance at the thought of being denied answers _again_. “I’ve made my own observations, but it’s your opinions of them that I’m after.”

“Very well.” He maneuvers his writing pad and quill out of the way and eases back into his seat, ready for the brunt of your barrage. “What would you like to know?”

“What can you tell me of them?”

He laughs, seeming to notice you’ll take anything you can get at this point. “They are fine men, each of them sterling in their own manners and skills. I have little complaint working alongside them. Though, Thomas could stand to bathe more frequently.” He adds the last words with a small smile.

It’s a fairly succinct answer that doesn’t offer much in the way you were hoping. You try again, perhaps a bit of prodding in the right direction will yield better results.

“Mmn. And how do they carry out their work? You make it sound like some may have more… _experience_ in certain areas?”

“They each have their specialties, of course. Our varied camaraderie ensures our stability — helps us cover more ground. Like the twine that winds a net or the joined links in a chain, we have our own strengths and weaknesses and hold fast together,” he says, regarding you carefully, and the sting of irony at his entrapping analogy lingers.

“Are you looking to exploit one of our flaws, lass?” A playful smile tugs at his lip.

“What, no!” You say, almost too quickly, too loudly. Those eyes of his continue to regard you with friendly focus. “No, I just… My opinions may be changing.”

“For the better, I would hope.”

“It’s not completely clear to me just yet, but I am unafraid to change my opinion based on new findings.”

The words spilling from your mouth are not exactly what you had expected, but it feels genuine. Truthful. If these men are not as terrible as they seem, if they are — God help you — decently indecent men, then why not change your stance in the face of new behavior? Near-kidnapping aside, it _is_ a well-paying position.

William’s profile comes into view as he stares out the window in thought. Even with Haytham’s touch fresh on your mind, it would be hard to ignore how handsome the man is. Especially so with those soft eyes flitting about in quiet concentration on the bits of activity going on just outside the window pane. He carries himself almost as well as Haytham does, and seems much more even-tempered. And with that tartan shawl draped so invitingly over his shoulder, your thoughts tiptoe closer to seeing it, among other articles of clothing, tossed aside.

“Lass,” he says, and you look up, hoping the heated flush on your face is not evident. He motions you over with a gently flicking finger. His expression looks warm and even as usual, but your steps toward him are cautious. “Just out the window, there. What do you see?”

You rest your hands on the seated windowsill and peer out. Two figures are walking two saddled and bridled horses toward the rear of the property. Perhaps to the stables? “I only see two stable-hands. What of them?”

“Look closer,” he prods. You look at him curiously, not quite connecting the dots in this game of his, and get closer to the glass. With enough squinting you can make out some familiar sights — playful shoves and flinching, half-thrown punches. And those familiar steps are hard to miss even from this distance.

“Oh. That’s Thomas and Shay. Have they been out riding?” You crane your neck further as the two walk along with their steeds.

“Aye,” William says and clears his throat. “Hard to believe that a few weeks ago those two were at each other’s necks night and day.”

_What?_

No, that couldn’t be true. The two of them are always together carrying on and laughing — matter of fact, the only times you hadn’t seen them openly enjoying each other’s company had been those first few days they came alongside Haytham to your shop. Those two were like two schoolboys with  nothing but free time and sunshine in an unattended schoolyard. William smiles warmly when you turn from the window.

“It’s true,” he says through your disbelieving stare. “Shay and Thomas didn’t always see things the way the other did. Thomas is serious enough in his dedication to his work, but the quality… leaves something to be desired. He takes his time, cuts corners, but generally gets the job done.”

That _does_ sound like the boozy bastard. Even when it came to the simple task of watching you for the day, he was eager to slack off at first opportunity. The pillows stacked on the seated windowsill are more comfortable than they look as you settle your body down for what could be a good story. Even if it isn’t, Johnson’s voice is always something you could listen to on a sunny day. “And Shay?”

“Shay is also dedicated, as we all are. Though, before he got along with Thomas, he was a bit on edge — all duty and no delight. It came to the point that it began to interfere with his skills. And that realization only made it harder for him to cope.”

You grasp one of the free pillows and settle it into your lap, fingertips idly toying at the soft fringes. “But something changed? He doesn’t seem that way now.”

He nods, settling back into his own chair and folding his leg across his lap. “Has Shay told you about his last charge? The translator who was working for us?”

You shake your head. Last you can recall, Shay had been annoyed when Thomas had mentioned it, enough to strike out at him. It’s probably for the best that you haven’t asked him directly about it.

“The translator, Samuel Dunes, was also dedicated to our work like the rest of us. Agreeable man, fiercely protective of his research, but pleasant company. It had been Shay’s primary duty to protect Samuel day and night. Where Sam went, Shay went,” he pauses a moment to run a hand over his tied back hair. “In hindsight, that may have been too much to expect of one man. A mistake that we are correcting with you.”

A slight overcorrection if you could have a say in it, but the lengths of insurance they’re taking for your life offer some comfort and security.

“Samuel’s death was a serious blow to our already slow progress. I’d say worst of all, it broke Shay’s confidence in himself. Poor lad drunk himself silly for weeks. Haytham, Charles, and I thought it best to let him sort it out in time, but Thomas… Well, as usual, he had his own ideas.”

“Ideas?” Thomas’ playful nature hardly makes him seem the shrewdest man, but whatever he did must have worked. You could never have guessed Shay had gone through a rough patch at all.

“Oh, yes. Thought he was a clever little shit,” William says flatly and taps his nose. “Ended up getting his nose broken instead.”

You snort out a laugh faster than you can catch yourself. To your surprise, William echoes it with a deep chuckle of his own.

“I’m surprised Hickey never held a grudge with him about that. Instead, he did something he never does,” William pauses and stands, taking smooth steps out of the sunroom. Even your glances of wordless confusion seem to go unnoticed as he moves to your desk. The man is skilled at giving a gripping narration, you’ll give him that.

“Wh-what did he do?” The pillows under you shuffle softly as you turn from your seated position to stare at William more directly.

“He changed his tactics.” His hand glides across the book resting atop the desk. “And that’s how we found you.”

“So, it _was_ him? _Thomas_ found me? All on his own?” Upon your first night here, you had assumed Thomas was simply attempting to get a rise out of you — the way you’ve seen him do countless times with Shay.

Another rumbling laugh from William. “If you would be so kind not to remind him when we are in his company, we have heard quite enough of his bragging.”

“I think I can manage that.” You manage to keep your smile from growing wider at the thought of Thomas goading his colleagues.

“You should have seen Shay’s reaction once Thomas informed us. Haytham had to talk the lad down from going and seeing you _that night_. With the mood Shay was in, had you declined, he very well would have hauled you here over his shoulder. That and Haytham didn’t think you would take kindly to a visit at night.”

“I didn’t take kindly to his morning visit, either.” Those days of not-so-friendly petitioning are a blur, save for the last day of course. And it’s hard to tell if being kidnapped in the middle of the night with a broad shoulder digging into your gut would be any worse.

“Aye, not at all. Haytham had quite the time explaining that to Shay when he returned empty-handed. The lad insisted on returning with Haytham the next day. ‘Course, he chose Charles instead, and that had Shay pacing down the halls til their return. Can imagine how vexed he was. But, finally, Haythem allowed Shay along only if he wouldn’t speak out of turn. How did that go, by the way?”

That’s been some time ago now, definitely over a week. Perhaps nine days ago? Your face twists in effort to remember. “I recall them introducing themselves, but they didn’t stay terribly long after I declined them. To be honest, I hadn’t given any of you much thought until I realized this was going to be a problem. Though, by then I suppose that was too late.”

“I suppose it was,” he says with a smooth roll of his shoulders, gently carrying the book back into the sunroom, and offering it toward you. “Shay has proven himself to us time and time again. He’s better now, but I believe he sees a second chance in you — a way to make up for the loss of Samuel.”

The hide-bound book feels as cool and unwelcoming as you had left it as you accept it from William’s grasp and find his gaze slightly glassy-eyed. And the question swimming in your mind gathers on your tongue, like an unsavory aftertaste that refuses to be swallowed. It may not be something you want to hear, it may be something you _shouldn_ _’t_ hear, but the need lingers. It refuses to turn away.

“What happened to—…” You rethink your words, swallow them whole, and try again. “How did Samuel die?”

William’s exhale is soft, barely audible. “That, lass, is not something that is my business to discuss.”

The curious look in your eye dissipates to confusion under his refusal.

“You may be able to gather more from Shay if he is willing — I have said the length of all I care to. But wait here a moment, I may be able to help in another way.”

William is on the move again, this time departing from the entire room and into the hall, and for a few moments of strange quiet you sit there patiently waiting his return. And he does, with a small box in his hands.

“We were hoping to save this until you had come further along in order to compare them, but in the pursuit of progress I believe these are better used now than later.” He sets the small box atop your desk and bids you closer.

It’s a small thing. Perhaps two hands long, two hands wide, and one hand tall, oak-brown in color, and remarkably unremarkable in its outward appearance. You look to William and back to the box as you step closer. “What is this?”

“This,” he begins. “Is the fruit of our combined efforts. Firstly, Samuel’s and then my own. But you’ll find I was not able to gather as much as he. Sadly, we even conflicted information in some spots.”

He slides its latch up and the box creaks open with the tenderness of a favored music box, soft and lilting. The gesture alone has your eyes widening in curiosity. In this box is the memory, perhaps even a legacy, of a man you have never and will never come to know. His last efforts and studies were worth the price of his life and here they lay in a small container. Your feet shuffle closer to William as the box fully opens.

Inside, there are three sheets of parchment, as motionless and unimpressive as parchment tends to be. Once more, you curiously look to William and back at the box that, incredibly, has become even less-impressive. There isn’t a nice way to voice the question.

“Is that… uhm, is that _all_ that there is?”

William chuckles even as you try to smooth over your unintended offense. “As I said, lass, our progress was slow. Painfully so.”

Still, he’s smiling as comfortingly as ever as he takes out the sheets and sets the box aside. There’s a feeling in your chest now as you watch the papers emerge and be laid flat and bare to be read. It’s heavy and foreign and clings to the breath of your lungs. Is this worry? Doubt? _Dread_?

In front of you lies very little. And this so-called very little cost a man his _life_. The fluttering peace of mind you had before at William’s reassurance and Shay’s tale of redemption is falling fast — like a stone to the bottom of a riverbed. Breaths are coming in shorter and shorter puffs as he smooths the documents and the paper crinkles in latent menace. You take a step back, and the action does not go unnoticed.

“Lass?”

“So sorry, William.” You fan yourself with your hand and offer the least fretful smile you can muster. “It’s a bit warm in here. Isn’t it warm in here? I, uh, would you like to get some air? I think some air would be nice.”

He’s quick to take the hint and soon his troubled stare melts into a good-natured grin, his mustache curling with his lip. “Grand idea. Allow me to lock these things away and we may step out.”

“Good,” you say, watching him delicately place the papers back inside the menacing coffer. “That’s good. I-I’ll meet you in the hall.”

The afternoon goes over about as well as could be expected for being responsible in carrying on a dead man’s task. But to your surprise, William does not pressure you. Not a single time.

Not after returning from what had been a lovely walk around the premises where he even treated you to visiting the handsome thoroughbreds that had been seen before. Not after your very obvious positioning of the small box to the far end of your desk, unopened and untouched, once you were able to return to work. And not at the end of the day over dinner with all guards present, save for Haytham and Charles.

Truly, William is a kind-hearted gentleman, but your fear remains at the edge of your thoughts. Your fork travels over the foodstuff on your plate, you smile and nod, and reply to the evening’s warm conversation. But your mind is elsewhere — stuck in the grime of what may happen, what _will_ happen, if you fail to get results. If you fail to live up to your predecessor. If you simply fail.

And then there’s the worry of what may happen if you _do_ gather information. Success means a stuck target on your back, a coiled noose around your neck, a death sentence at the hands of the unknown that has your appetite very nearly dried up.

The evening’s mealtime is briefly interrupted by Haytham’s appearance. Shay, looking up in the middle of refilling your mug, greets them first.

“You’re back already?” The younger of the two Irishmen calls.

“ _Yes_ , we are. Not that you need to point it out.” Charles says, voice adrift on disdain.

“We, unfortunately, did not find those we were looking for.” Haytham follows with a lighter tone, taking off his hat and placing it along with his cloak in the hands of a serving girl. His gaze surveys the table. “I trust things have gone better here?”

Your gaze snaps over to William. He’s focused on Haytham as he speaks. “Indeed. We’ve had some progress today.”

The cushion of your seat envelops you as you try to desperately sink back as far as possible. Is William really _covering_ for you right now? Today wasn’t exactly spent doing nothing, but to call it ‘progress’ is a definite stretch. He catches your worried stare in the corner of his eye, returning a sidelong smile as his gaze returns to his boss.

“Excellent,” Haytham chimes and makes his way to the head of the table to eat. The sight of him now, hatless and relaxed isn’t terribly far from how you had seen him some hours ago — on his knees, fiendishly teasing every sensitive bit of skin he could get his hands and mouth on. The distracting memory has you gulping from your mug as he continues speaking. “In that case, I’d like to set up a regular gathering of sorts — a meeting to review new findings and leads — so that we may pursue them with collective vigor.”

Sounds like a reasonable idea.

“And I would like to use your findings within that book to head us in the right direction,” he adds.

He wants to _what_?

At just the wrong moment, your breath sputters into your drink and you choke on equal parts liquid and Haytham’s words. The dining hall echoes with your coughs and sputters, and you cover your mouth to try to contain it and regain your composure.

“You awroight, gurl?” Thomas claps you hard on the back — a bit too hard — once, twice to help clear your airway.

“Auuggh!” You say, trying to manage the difficulty of breathing, speaking, and processing choking. “Id — id wend ub by dose!”

Thomas is the first to lose it and his roaring laughter echoes over your coughs and he claps your back a few more times. “It’s burnin’, issit? Tilt ‘cher head back, get it down, not out.”

Shay and Charles chuckle at your unexpectedly entertaining show. Eventually, though, you regain clear breath and sooth your agitated throat with more liquid. It seems that during your distress, Haytham and William began speaking on making arrangements for informative meetings.

“That may be for the best,” William says, continuing the rhythm of the conversation after your mishap. “We could certainly do those on the day of my watch. Perhaps every other watch to give us more time to make our research presentable.”

Strange how he seems willing to have his research analyzed on an incredibly hastened schedule. William never revealed just how long it had taken him to come up with his paltry amount of information, but it must have taken ages. What could the both of you, even working together, come up with in such short time?

There’s no time for protest as Haytham signs off on the idea and dinner continues without much regard for your uneasiness. Even as William delivers the news of sharing previous research documents earlier than planned, those gathered at the table remain warmhearted and open to the idea of expediting their search.

Perhaps their search has gone on for too long? That’s somewhat strange considering they almost always encourage you to take your time. It wouldn’t be terribly surprising if that, too, among all other things is another facade. What impatience lies under their kind and warm words? Will those words retain their warmth if you are unable to deliver?

Questions upon questions, _as usual_ , follow you into the night and the next morning. And Charles, _as usual_ , is straight to business with obnoxious regularity. So far, the others did not mind if you took your time to approach their quarters to start the work day, but not Charles. No, he preferred to have you rise and operate on his time: far too early.

Perhaps he figures the earlier work begins, the more you will be able to find. If only knew the truth of the matter. The truth of how, despite their attempts to set you up for success, you’re still unsure if their success bodes well for you. Though, you can imagine how well failure may go.

“Have you had much success?” He asks in too-rare curiosity not long after you’ve had a morning meal. That may very well be the first time the man has asked you a question.

“I— uh, well there’s been _setbacks_ , but…” Your tongue stumbles over your words in response.

“But you have our former colleague’s notes, yes?” Charles asks again, prodding for answers with tone and worded pacing. Unlike William and Thomas, he seems to prefer an active role in his watch, always repositioning and remaining vigilant. For the first hour, it was somewhat reassuring. And ever since then, it’s been a teeth-grinding annoyance.

“I admit I am hesitant to use them, Charles.” You answer at last. Perhaps with careful wording, he can come to understand why.

“Whyever for?” He asks with a vocal snap of irritation.

The words are hard to find — harder still to form coherently. And with the way Charles’ footsteps unendingly echo on wooded floors, it is most difficult to voice them in due time.

“The _events_ that happened with Samuel. I don’t want them to happen to me.” You say, having looked over this same page and its same symbols for what must be the thousandth time. With a soft exhale and rub of your eyes, you close the book. “Whatever I find, whatever I write, someone will want to kill me over it, yes? He wasn’t even able to make more than three pages and that cost him his life.”

“Your point?” Charles sounds surprisingly unbothered. From earlier interactions, you could guess that the man was a bit chilly-natured, but even this is a shock.

“My _point_ is that I don’t want to die, Charles!” A scowl you weren’t entirely aware of mars the pronunciation of his name.

He scoffs. “Rest assured, your life is secure. We won’t make the same mistake twice.”

“Is that why it took _five_ tries to get me to come with you?” Your hand clasps your mouth, but the words have already spilled out and filled the air with impertinence. Charles’ footsteps have stopped and the icy gaze he’s giving your back is enough to keep you from turning back to see why.

“It took _five_ tries because Master Haytham prefers using a gentle hand for these matters.” His footsteps resume, thumping closer in slow beats.

Soon, he’s close enough to smell — like lilacs and wisteria, an oddly cheerful smell considering his sour demeanor. From behind your chair, his arm reaches out past your shoulder and to the corner of the desk where the small coffer sits in wait — an apt punishment for your careless choice of words.

“…Charles?” You ask, your hand now removed from your lips. But he remains soundless and gently sets the box on top of your current papers, opening it carefully.

“While Master Haytham knows a gentle hand has its uses, he also knows what wonders a _strong_ hand may work. We all do; make no mistake of that.” His voice rumbles near your ear and his even breath paints your bare neck. Your own breath hitches in your throat when his hand warmly grabs yours. The path he guides your hand on is a simple one, straight from your chest to the rim of the coffer. The act has your breaths increasing now that more of your neck and chest is exposed.

“Now, take these papers. Allow them guide you. You are here with us now, and you’ve a job to do.” Charles’ voice lowers and softens, the hard edge of his words now gone. And closer still you feel the steady ebb and flow of his breath near your neck and ear. Those memories of a hot-breathed morning with Haytham are flooding back, and your neck slants just slightly to expose more skin to that guilty pleasure, eyes falling closed.

“You know we are capable,” he continues, warm puffs of his voice coming ever closer. “You’ve seen only a glimpse of what we can do — what we _will_ do to ensure you and these documents are secured.”

You swallow hard and nod. Yes, you’ve seen Shay in action and remain convinced that even alone, he would do well to fight off ten other armed men. And hadn’t William mentioned he was the group’s most recent acquisition? Perhaps the least experienced in… _whatever_ it is that they do. Fluttering jitters fill your stomach at the thought of what skills the others may possess.

“Good,” he says flatly. The charm of his breathily worded spell snaps to a close and your eyes flash wide. “Then you’d best get started.”

You sit upright and turn to face Charles, but he’s already moved on toward the sunroom. Not quite for his own comfort the way William and Thomas like to do. He’s surveying the outside premises from the room with a hawk-eyed look. The hand still resting on the coffer returns to its position at your chest to steady your breath and measure your pattering heartbeats.

This man — no, _these men_ are more stressful than any job you’ve ever had.

With Charles’ helpful instruction, the day goes by without much worry. Though, the following day with fresh thoughts and renewed energy, you begin to discover a bothersome trend in Samuel’s notes. It’s dismissed easily enough at first, but after an hour or two of tripping over the same line, the inconsistencies stack into a pile that cannot be disregarded.

Early on in the book, it goes through a rather grandiose details of life and death, blossoming and wilting, ebbing and flowing in tandem. The writing is as cyclic and dense as the topic it describes, but as you look to compare against Samuel’s notes, the topic oddly does not exist. It’s almost as if…ignored?

Turning back a few pages in the book does little — turning forward does even less. Matter of fact, the less thoroughly translated passages only prove more confusing as you glance from the book to the dead man’s loose parchment.

Had Samuel skipped the beginning section? His notes don’t indicate a starting page in the book, but they do speak almost entirely of some sort of void, but also a maze? As described in his own words: ‘it is an endless, unfathomable oblivion trapped behind the walls of mankind’s ignorance and infancy.’ The papers settle on the table and you grip your head in your hands, headache threatening to emerge.

_What the hell does any of that fucking mean?_

The pressure of a hand coming to perch on your shoulder startles you out of your concentration with a gasp, and a quick turn of your head shows Shay looking over you with wide-eyed worry. He lifts his hand and steps back.

“Hey, whoa, sorry. It’s just me,” he reassures, and gives a soft smile that you do not return. “Tried calling your name, but you weren’t responding. Deep in it, are ya?”

“It’s — don’t worry about it,” you say and allow a moment’s reprieve to focus away from the crumbled words that Samuel’s left behind. Shay’s gaze lingers on you, passive and waiting, seemingly wanting your vocal admission. He perks as you speak again. “Was there something you needed, Shay?”

“It’s time for lunch, but if you’d rather not, I can have the staff hold it for later — keep it warm until you’re ready to eat.” He points a thumb toward the hall.

As usual when working without stopping, the waning sting of hunger has been ignored up until now. Hardly the healthiest thing to do, but easily slipped into when focused on a task. “I’d like to wait a bit if that’s all right.”

“O’course. It’s not going anywhere.” After a few exchanged words with a fretfully waiting serving girl in the hall, Shay is back to resting in the sunroom. He sits relaxed enough, boot heels propped on the table, and a twice-bitten apple in his hand. Seems that even though you declined a meal, a snack is in order for your hungry guard.

Each crisp bite and slow swallow, each bob of his stubbled throat, has your mind wandering further and further from your appointed task. Shay, much like the others, is not an unattractive man.

For the moment, he’s opted to decline his jacket the pleasure of wrapping against his body and it lies nearby in silent disappointment. The lust-rich fields of your mind blossom with indecent thoughts of times past and times potential: from the way William had looked at you with playful growing desire just days ago to now — wondering what it would be like to slide your fingers down the collar of Shay’s shirt, to feel the warmth of his skin under your bare touch to see if those muscles are as tense as you think they are.

The man seems so predatory even when relaxed, wound and taut and ready to strike. What would it be like to feel the tension easing from his bones? To knead and kiss away at exposed skin under his soft sighs of relief?

“…I do something wrong?”

The bubble of a daydream bursts and you catch Shay looking brow-bunchingly confused, posed for another bite. Just how long have you been staring?

“You’re looking at me like… well, like you want to eat me. Can still go get your food if you want.” He bites and swallows again, not the least bothered enough to stop eating.

“I, ah, sorry. That’s not it, I was just… admiring your outfit.” That’s not entirely a lie, much as you try to convince yourself. His outfit, like the others’, is interesting, but certainly not the object of your attention.

“Were you now? Haytham had mentioned something on that. Said you’d said you fancy our clothes?”

“That’s one way to put it.” The mental roll of your eyes does little to fight the hope that Haytham didn’t decide to share _every_ intimate detail from that encounter. Perhaps that is an avenue to explore another day, another time when you had actually gotten some work done instead of remaining at this absolute standstill.

The storm clouds of negativity soon give way to a sunburst of a memory — a way to perhaps speed up your research while getting answers. William _had_ said just yesterday to ask Shay about Samuel if you wanted the full accounting of what had happened.

“Shay?” You ask, a tad quietly.

“Mm?” Is his reply as he looks out across the premises in his usual methods of surveillance.

“I was wondering. You knew Samuel closely during your time together?”

There’s a pause in his speech as his gaze comes to rest on you and size up your words. “That’s right.”

“I admit, I’m a bit puzzled by what he’s written here. In your time with him, did he happen to ever tell you about his research? Any little thing could help.” ‘A bit puzzled’ is an understatement. A more apt description would be ‘tragically lost.’

“He never told me anything you don’t already know,” he says plainly with another crisp apple bite. The answer is painfully final and you grit your teeth in preparation to delve for more. Before your words flow, his voice kindles with some of his own. “And how’d you get to knowing about Sam?”

“I — well, he was my predecessor, and you were his guard, weren’t you?”

“Aye. Never spoke of his name, though.” Another crunch and slow chew before he speaks, licking his lips clean. “Who’s been blabbing at you about him?”

Your gaze skips off hand-in-hand with whatever words you thought to use. The suspicion that perhaps you weren’t supposed to let on to all that you know is creeping up your spine. William never said explicitly to avoid the topic, though he did make mention to approach Shay when he was ready. Perhaps… the wound is still too tender for investigative prodding.

 “It’s—… Well, I was just—….”

A staggering crunch of his teeth sinking into the apple’s flesh has your words scattering. A stray thought — not entirely unwelcome — crosses your mind. What it would it be like to have his lips and teeth marking your own flesh in hungry, exploring bites — some soft and some hard enough to leave marks? Across your bare back and shoulders, down your spine and along your — god damn it all when had your thoughts been so easily turned to lustful temptation?

With the time that’s passed in silence, though, there’s little time to give question to your inappropriate thoughts. May as well come out with it.

“Shay,” you start and he looks up with an even-tempered look, still chewing. That look will not remain long, you think, and you wring your hands for the courage to bring up a painfully sensitive topic. “Could you tell me… what happened to Samuel?”

Instead of looking sad or annoyed, he features simply look _weary_. This is a story, perhaps, he’s had to tell too many times. A vivid memory recalled too often and replayed to the point of breaking. The guilt stings your heart almost instantly. He seems to notice your look of regret, and as you part your lips to speak he holds his hand up to stem the flow of whatever is about to spill from you.

“Don’t.” The word is harsh, strained. More strained than you’ve heard from the Irishman’s usually good-humored tone. “Listen, t’ain’t the sort of thing that you need to have swimming about in your head. You’re better off not knowing. Just put it from your mind, would you?”

The risk of asking too much from Shay had been one you considered, but now with him making demands of his own — that you simply _ignore_ another man’s murder — has you wondering what regard Shay has toward you. The gesture, while somewhat patronizing, seems earnest enough.

But that doesn’t get questions answered.

“That’s kind of you, Shay, and I appreciate the concern, I really do. But I’m here to do a job while you and the others say you’re here to protect me from these — these invisible _boogiemen_ that killed your friend. This is all so… ” You pause a moment, leaning back in your chair and running your hands along your face to muffle incredulous laughter before you get out of your chair altogether. “I’m sure you understand just how _hard_ all this is for me to process. But, please I—”

“ _No_ , I said.”

His tone is deeper, _agitated_. And whatever boundary you had tried to carefully overstep seems to have backfired. He looks quite finished talking, eating, and being in the same room with you, apparently, as he rises from his seat and makes way toward the door with his coat in hand.

“What? Shay, where are you going? You can’t just —”

He reverses his movement and the face he has on now isn’t one you’ve ever seen before. Not like he is with Thomas, or William, or even Haytham. Not quite furious — definitely angry — but with such an intense look that has you feeling much smaller.

“Listen, you want yourself a story, you crack open one of those books and get it your damn self. _Your_ job is to make sense of the scribbles in that book and _my_ job, in case you’ve forgotten, is not to entertain you. I’m here to stand between you and a quick death. Or do you want me to move out of the way?”

“You wouldn’t.” You challenge him, biting your lower with concern.

“Oh, wouldn’t I? What happened to Sam could happen to anybody, anytime. _Even you_.” His eyes flare from the realization of his heated words, and he folds his lips between his teeth as though trying to bite the words back to place them where they came.

The hurt look crosses your features before you can think to mask them, with indignation rising. This may not have been your cleverest idea.

“Fine,” you say, forcing your voice to remain unwavering and steady. “If you want me to work blind and dumb, _fine_. I’m just wasting your time and your — excuse me, _Haytham_ _’s_ — money in the process.”

Whatever words he’s considering to say don’t find their way past his still bitten-back lips. You make your way back to your desk and sit, scooting close to the tabletop with the chair’s feet scraping harshly on the floor.

He says nothing for a long while. And from the silence that emanates from him, you’re not quite sure if he’s still in the same room — perhaps he’s abandoning you to an evening of vulnerability — until you hear the familiar sound of his coat coming to rest in the nearby sunroom. It’s an oddly comforting sound that washes away the echoes of his and your previous outburst.

Boogiemen or not, you’d rather not be unguarded.

The thick silence between you persists through the evening. Eventually, though, a tired-looking serving girl quietly reminds the two of you that your meals are still waiting and it is growing more difficult to retain both their heat and flavor. After you regard Shay warily, the serving girl leads you out into the hall with the softly thumping footsteps of your guard not too far behind.

The meal, as expected, is as tasty as hours-old food can be. And Shay, for the first time, offers no conversation while seated at the table. The other men of the estate have long since had their meals and gone with the lateness of the hour — only you and Shay remain.

“Where is that daft bastard?” Shay mutters to himself as you pluck one of the final cutlets of toughened meat into your mouth. It takes a moment to catch on to what he means, but you come to realize that your next assigned keeper is uncharacteristically truant. Where on earth is Thomas? “He better not be drunk again.”

Eventually, and with a slight hesitation, Shay departs the room to search for Thomas. You can finally breathe easier with the wake of his stormy mood following him out into the hall. He’s every bit conflicted, irked, and prowling off to find Thomas to no doubt take some frustrations out on the man. Can’t say you would blame him considering how late he is to his shift.

But now is the time to give life to your plans. You’ll get your answers whether or not Shay is willing to give them.

Just a few moments needed to get things in order and you can quickly resume your facade just in time to hear Thomas and Shay’s thunderous return. Seems the man was enjoying more drinks than he should. A few terse words later and you’re handed off to your next keeper, so to speak. Makes your plans all the easier to follow through.

Much later in the evening after you and Thomas retire to separate quarters the serving girl, still present long after her usual hours, picks up the mugs and dishes of the finished meals. She sighs softly as she gathers the utensils, pausing a moment as her eyebrows bunch. She blinks the tiredness away a few times and counts again, even going to far to drop to her knees and search under the table. _Great_ , exactly what she needs at the end of a long day — wherever that knife has gone, it’s probably going to come out of her pay for the week.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actions and words cut deeper than any weapon.
> 
> (Warnings for violence and death in this chapter.)

Intuition has a funny way of being exactly right or exactly wrong. And here, sitting in front of Haytham’s desk alongside Shay and Thomas, you’re not quite sure if things went terribly well or just terribly.

The estate’s master sits in silent menace on his familiar side of the desk, gaze traveling from you to Hickey to Cormac at a steady pace. Those eyes are skilled at conveying the level of sheer annoyance without the aid of his voice. And, goodness, he seems _furious_.

And yet, he is quiet.

Quietly sitting, awaiting explanation with no other goading. Like a trio of children awaiting an inevitable scolding, none of you are terribly eager to speak up and face Haytham’s wrath. But the silence can only remain for so long.

Shay clears his throat and dives into uncertainty.

“I, uh, I s’pose we’d best explain, sir.” The Irishman says with a surprisingly unwavering voice.

“Yes, you damn well should.” Is Haytham’s reply as he rests his hands in his lap, legs crossing underneath his desk as he makes himself comfortable. “I take it you have an engaging tale as to how _this_ came into your possession? Or why it even exists?”

Atop Haytham’s desk lays the trouble that had started the whole bizarre encounter.

It feigns innocence well behind the mask of a simple cover — not unlike a certain other book you’ve so recently encountered. As far as you can recall, it’s left two men dead; you, Thomas and Shay wounded; and a cart full of unanswered questions.

“Yes.” Shay’s tone lowers somewhat and his gaze shifts implicitly in your direction. Not quite glaring, but the nonvocal accusation is enough to have Haytham’s brows rising in question. “There’s a tale to be told about this rubbish.”

Some silence skips along undisturbed save for the sound of Thomas’ labored breathing. Poor man is having to alternate breath between his mouth and what he can from his nose and the inconsistent slurching sound is just short of stomach-turning.

“And you have… cause for your injuries as well?” Haytham speaks his words with careful consideration.

As you follow his gaze, you see him locked onto Thomas and the bandage set to his face. It’s mostly white save for a bit of blood seeping through, but even through the bandage the swelling is obvious.

Part of the damage toll includes Thomas’ nose being broken. Again.

You and Shay had gotten the least of the damage — your shoulder is bloody and bandaged and _painful_ , but it’s intact and function. The only thing Shay is sporting are some bruised ribs.

Ever so meekly, you shift your sight from Thomas over to Shay. It’s not until Thomas leans forward in his chair, bloody shirt and all, to glare at Shay on the other side of you that the man huffs and speaks.

“…yeah. There’s cause.” Thomas mutters through cloth and stopped up nose. If the man is expecting an apology, Shay doesn’t offer one.

“Go on, then. From the beginning if you’d be so kind.” It’s hard to tell if Haytham looks pleased that everyone’s still in one piece or if he’s considering finishing the job himself.

Stuck quite literally in the middle of the two men who have been your armed guards for nearly two weeks, you feel yourself shrinking as three pairs of eyes rest on you.

“You heard ‘im,” Thomas says with his speech somewhat impaired by a nasal gurgle.

“Rrright,” you say, tucking some hair away using your good arm. “The beginning.”

-✩-

There’s really only two things that you’ve seen Thomas really take a shining to since you’ve been in his company: drinking himself silly and teasing at others. He never seems to do so in bad spirits, neither the drinking nor the teasing, but today his character quirks will be put to good use.

It’s almost a shame to do this to him — this would have been the second day spent in his company — but as entertaining as he is, you have other plans to bring to light. And those plans don’t involve a raucously loud guard following your every move.

Since the day of Charles’s helpful instruction, you had been pouring any time you could into making sense of Samuel’s writing, of anything the man had written down. The maze he’s left in his wake remains infuriatingly impossible to navigate.

Even after imploring Shay for assistance, you were left with little less than nothing. Again. _Useless arse._

And that is precisely when you made the plan, albeit a haphazard one, to get answers.

There’s fruitful social circles for an academic like you. Surely, this man, this _Samuel Dunes_ had to have some sort of higher education to fulfill this task. There’s a few people you have in mind that you can question, but first things first:

You must leave the house undetected.

And that, partially, is where Thomas comes into play.

If he is anything like last week, he won’t be up for hours and will give verbal lashing to anyone who attempts to disturb his recovery from alcohol-induced slumber. With the others unassigned to you today and the master of the premises hopefully fast asleep, it’s just a matter of getting out of the house unseen by the many workers of the estate.

Gardeners, stable hands, cooks, cleaners, and especially a few guards stationed at the exterior of the property all have their eyes and ears open for anything out of the ordinary. And the sight of you wandering about unescorted would draw more attention than you can bear. Your chest puffs in a steady breath, and you say some small words of encouragement as you pack your bag with just the necessities: some money, a bit of wrapped food, and… the kitchen knife you had stowed away.

Since last night’s meal had been particularly tough, the additional request for a sharper knife had apparently raised no suspicion. It’s not much, but it’s something should thing’s get ugly.

The small bag loops across your shoulder and under your arm snugly enough. With enough fortune, you should be back before day’s end. Even if returning may be a bad idea — quite possibly the worst idea you’ve ever had just short of accepting this job — you still have every intention of seeing this mystery to the end for reasons you can’t quite place.

Tiptoeing out of your room and down the hall is a heart-wrenchingly long part of your journey simply for the enveloping fear that at any moment Thomas or Haytham may come out of their rooms for any little thing. But their doors remain shut, their rooms quiet. And the rest of your escape down the stairs, along the many halls, past the kitchen, and toward the back door go incredibly well and the door handle is just within reach.

It, too, is within someone else’s reach as the knob twists and the door begins to open.

It begins to make its full arc and two bodies approach the doorframe. Hard to make them out from the other side of the door, though. The very moment the doorknob had begun to twist, you pressed yourself into the corner on the door’s blind side, breathlessly praying to escape discovery.

“Master Kenway requests that the threat be removed quietly if possible. If not, make it look accidental or sheer happenstance.” A familiar voice speaks just on the other side of the door.

“Yes, sir. We should be able to manage,” comes a woman’s reply.

It’s not a voice you’ve heard before as far as you can tell. The door, suspended in conversation, holds its position as some sort of co-conspirator to allow you to eavesdrop on the two of them.

“Good,” is the flat reply given. “It should be fairly easy, but don’t cock it up.”

“Of course not, sir.” There’s a pause, just briefly as the door begins to close and your heart feels ripe to burst. But the woman’s voice proves to be your most timely savior. “There’s one more thing if you’ve a moment, sir.”

“What is it?”

“There’s been some inquiries going ‘round town about the missin’ shopkeeper we hired. Details from our men in Cambridge think it may be Assassin-related activity, but they don’t yet have full reports. They request more time to investigate if our resources can abide.”

“And the reason they’re not here now to request it _themselves_?” You’d know that tone of rising irritation anywhere — that must be Charles!

“I— sir, I was only just recently told and I was on my wa—”

“No doubt they’re already conducting their own inquiries without approval. Tell them to return to base after their ‘ _mission_.’ I’ll have Hickey deal with them. And, Emily?”

“Sir?”

“You’d do well not to serve as the messenger with a target on your back for their schemes. I don’t want to see your eagerness to serve the Order construed into abuse by your brothers.”

“I— … Y-yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.” Charles exhales and you hear his footsteps carrying him further into the house.

“Sir.” Emily replies and she gently pulls the door closed and returns to her duties outside. Each of them have their own tasks for the morning, it seems.

Stunned into silence, part from panicked disbelief at successfully hiding and part from mind-buzzing questions, you remain in place several seconds after the door is shut — your hiding place revealed — and the two persons go about their business unaware of your unintentional spying.

You suppose now that perhaps Thomas wasn’t lying when he said he had a network of people under him — Charles certainly has a few underlings within his care.

But what’s all this about the _Order_? A band of brothers —and you suppose sisters— serving under Haytham’s orders, perhaps?

There’s a jolt of a chill up your spine and you blink yourself back into focus. This is no time to be lost in thought. You still have a yard to cross, a stable to enter, and a horse to steal. After you pry open this mystery about Samuel, you can tackle Haytham and his men.

Surely, that won’t be so difficult.

Daylight has yet to break over the horizon, and you still have much-needed of cover in darkness as you stalk, mostly stumble, your way to the barn where the thoroughbreds are kept. The air is still cool and wet with dew that sticks to your shoes and a damp spot on your knee from an indelicate fall while making your way here.

In the barn, though, it’s quite the opposite. Warmth spreads evenly with the bodies, _and smells_ , of stabled horses softly nickering and coming to attention at your arrival. A soft murmur of comfort and handful of feed does wonders in convincing a dapple gray mare from her stall.

“Easy now, sweet thing,” you say while attempting to fit a bridle over her muzzle. “We’re just going on a _little_ outing. We’ll be back in no time, I promise.”

“Gurl, that has to be the fuckin’ dumbest thing you’ve done yet.”

The bridle falls to the ground in your loosened grip, and the horse’s head rears in snorting surprise.

Your hand immediately goes to your pack to fish out the one method of defense you have. You turn, arm extended and blade wielded at the unfortunate watchdog that would dare try to stop you.

“D’you even know how saddle a horse?” The figure in the door of the barn asks. In the darkness, only just now beginning to be punctuated by gleams of early light, you can’t make out his face. But his voice, oh his voice has your muscles tense.

He take a few steps further into the barn. The sound of bootsteps on soft hay. The unavoidable smell of horse shit. And the pounding throb of your heart in your chest are just a few things you can register now with the unbearable frustration at being caught. At being ferried away _again_ without your full consent.

“And you really fink you’d be able to stop any of us wiv a _kitchen_ knife?”

Thomas Hickey. Looking all too pleased with himself catching you out in the barn, red-handed and looking every bit like you are intending to escape.

“Thomas,” you warn, leaning down to pick up the bridle. “You stay right there. I’m just going out for a bit, and then I’ll be back.”

“Oh, we’d be a sorry lot of we was bested by a shaky girl with cutlery.” His footsteps stop and your heartbeat along with it. He holds out his hand with lazy intent, yawning out a groan before speaking. “Now, you’re not going anywhere ‘til you give me that knife. So give it ‘ere and we’ll have ourselves a talk.”

“Thomas, I’m _warning_ you,” you say with a hint of desperation. Hurting him isn’t something you want to do. Damn, you’re not even sure if it’s something you _can_ do. But…

He shakes his head, hand still extended with his fingers expecting. “I fink you’ve hurt yourself enough for one week, don’tchu gurl? C’mon.”

But your grip loosens around the handle. It lands on the ground with an anticlimactic flop.

“Good ‘nuff,” he says and bends to pick up the knife, eying your trembling fists clenched at your sides. “Ay now, don’t go gettin’ all upset. You almost got away if it makes you feel better.”

“I had no idea my failure was so entertaining for you, Thomas.” You say through his chuckling as he places the knife with some stable tools nearby. Someone later on will be confused to find a kitchen knife among their hoof clippers and shoeing tools.

“Ain’t exactly that, gurl.” He snickers again and at your furiously bewildered stare, he explains. “You chose a good time, I’ll give you that. Wouldn’t’ve been gettin’ up for a long time if I didn’t need to take a piss. Thing is, though, love. Bathroom’s a bit far away for an early mornin’ leak.”

You stare on, eyes narrowing as the pieces start fitting together. “ _You didn_ _’t_.”

“Oh, I did. Was havin’ a nice piss right out the window ‘fore I saw you skitterin’ across the yard.”

Rolling your eyes at him only seems to have him snickering louder and you bite your lip waiting for his fit of laughter to pass.

Caught by such a _stupid_ twist of the unexpected. If it had been anyone else but Thomas you would have been gone by now — able to weave together the loose tangles of whatever it is that happened with Samuel.

“So, where’re we goin’?”

“What?” You look to him. That’s certainly not a question you were expecting — even less so seeing Thomas is still grinning in the dim light.

“You said you was goin’ somewhere. And I fink I recall you ain’t s’posed to go places on your own,” comes his matter-of-fact reply. As if to confuse you further, he begins pulling another horse from the stable and fitting it with the appropriate gear. “So, I’ll say again: where’re we goin’?”

“I-I was going to look up some colleagues,” you say as Thomas finishes his horse with ease and comes over to begin bridling and saddling yours. “And ask… about Samuel.”

“There’s easier ways than that to get answers, gurl.”

You scoff.

“You don’t think I’ve tried? William couldn’t tell me, Charles doesn’t know, Shay _wouldn_ _’t_ tell me, and I’m not going to ask Haytham. What, I suppose _you_ have all the answers?”

He snickers. “None that’d help what you’re lookin’ for. Which is… wot exactly?”

Great, laughed at again. Though, the sting of it is lessened by the offer to accompany you in your search.

“For answers about Samuel — who he was, where he studied, anything he fancied. I need something to grasp to pull answers out of his stupid notes and that damned book.”

“S’that all this is about?” He asks, reaching under to tighten the saddle’s straps along the horse’s underbelly. “We’ll just go there ourselves, then.”

“What?”

Since the others were so hushed on the topic of Samuel’s death, why on earth is Thomas so forward about it?

“You wanna stay, then? ‘Ave a little chat wiv ‘Ayfam ‘bout why you was sneakin’ out?” He gives a snorting laugh when your jaw snaps shut in response. “Didn’t ‘fink so. Get on n’ let’s get goin’.”

-✩-

“So, you _willingly_ escorted her off the premises without permission and without notifying anyone?” Haytham interrupts your storytelling while staring down Thomas in a most unamused way.

The man receiving Haytham’s visual and vocal venom bristles. “Now, ‘Ayfam, if she didn’t get some answers, she was bound to try again. N’ we did happen t’find out some useful information.”

“Yes, I’m aware. Though, you’ve done so at the risk of exposing the very thing you are sworn to protect.” Haytham’s careful gaze travels back to you, effectively silencing Thomas.

It’s only at his direct command to continue that you wring your hands, steady your voice, and carry on with the explanation of events.

-✩-

It’s a short trip out of the stables and past the front gate. The guards stationed there give you little notice with Thomas as your guide, and you both set out just as brilliant beginnings of daylight pierce the sleepy mist. He takes you far past the estate and out onto the roads leading into the city, both of your horses riding at a steady pace. He doesn’t say much of anything on the way there aside from ‘this way’ or ‘keep up.’ And for that, you’re thankful.

Soon, though, both your horses come to a comfortable walking pace and Thomas leads you through the still-sleepy city.

“S’right around here. Should still be about the same.” He comments, but you’re not sure quite what he means.

He guides you between rows of darkened houses and shops until finally, like a charred black specter, a fragment of its former self, a house comes into view. It’s partially collapsed and dilapidated with a section of the roof still holding up as an ill-bidding welcome. The remains of the home’s many support beams stand with skeletal purpose. And the home’s burned and ashen contents are scattered in uneven disfigured piles across the floor.

Thomas is the first off his horse and you follow him to the front of the building.

“Is this…?” You ask, head tilted back to see the fearsome amount of damage a fire can inflict on anything it touches.

“Ol’ Sammy-boy’s home? Yeah, it _was_.”

You move a step forward and Thomas’ arm shoots out faster than you could expect to halt your steps. He shakes his head, forbidding further approach. May be for the best, after all. The structure looks ready to shudder and collapse if forced to support more weight.

“Is this…” Voicing the words while bearing witness to the deathplace of someone you’ve never known proves difficult. “…is this where he died? Did it happen in the fire?”

“Chrissake, did they not even tell you th—?” He sighs hard through his nose and curses low under his breath. “No fuckin’ wonder you won’t settle down over this shit. Listen up ‘cause this ain’t the kind of thing I plan on tellin’ again,” he says, though he needn’t bother.

Every word out of Thomas’s mouth has your ears straining to listen for more. More details, more information. Every scrap you can get to piece together the picture of this unknown man and his life’s work. The two of you begin circling the building in slow, easy steps.

“Ol’ Sammy was our first translator, right? Booky type like you, but less lip n’ more results. Had a sweet deal going on with him as far as we could tell. And then one day —” He tucks his lower lip and teeth together, huffing out air. “— he n’ everything he owns gets burned real crisp. His wife. His kids. His damned mangy dog. Everything he had ‘cept those pages you got.”

He regards your continued quiet among the remains of charred wood, brick, and ash. “And Shay almost bit it trying to get anyone he could out. Didn’t need to bother with that none, though. They’s all dead by the time he got in anyhow.”

He points to his nose and mouth, his lip curling into a smile that is very _unsettling_. “All choked t’death on the smoke. Managed to get the box and get out ‘fore he did, too.”

You stand still for a moment, letting the words and their implication seep in. Samuel’s research had cost him his own life and his _family_ _’s_. Just how deep in this shit are you?

“Was there…” Your voice lowers, fearful implication rising. “…foul play suspected?”

Thomas, on the other hand, echoes out a laugh in the morning air. “Of _fucking course_ someone cooked up that fire. Cocked it up, too, ‘cause they didn’t get what they was lookin’ for. ‘Nless it was a knife to the neck, anyway.”

He notes your confused look and groans, as though it’s your own fault you haven’t been told anything. Your own fault that you don’t understand. Your own fault that you’ve done as told and kept your head low up until now.

“Look, all right. A _while_ ago, way before this, the same sods who did all his,” he motions to the burned out building, “torched up a buildin’ to get at one of ours. Someone Shay cared about. Only difference ‘tween now n’ then is Shay was able to get the other guy out ‘fore he died,” he adds with a chuckle.

The macabre humor is hardly fitting for the moment, but seems oddly suited for Thomas and he continues.

“Shay. You’ve seen ‘im. Ain’t the best with failin’, with disappointin’. Likes to do right by our group like some damn choir boy. Now, losin’ our guy from before was bad enough for ‘im, but after _Sammy_? Hah, you coulda painted at least dozen houses wiv the blood he spilled goin’ after those what did it.”

Your expression, eyes wide and staring into space giving mental life to the picture Thomas has made, only has him smiling wider.

“Ain’t nuffin’ you should be ‘fraid of, though. He’s done chose his side. He’s wiv us. N’ that’s really all there s t’know about that.”

His hand claps you hard on the back.

“Coulda told you that story back at ‘Ayfam’s place, but if you was willin’ to fuckin’ pull a knife on me, I had to make sure you got what you was lookin’ for. Satisfied?”

The picture is clear.

Shay is a man with blood on his hands — hell, blood on his face and chest and anywhere else not covered enough for blood to paint over. He feels guilt and remorse enough for the those who died under his protection, but your mind circles Thomas’ most troubling words.

Just how many people did Shay murder in order to get revenge?

Can safety really be assured alongside someone who could kill so many so effortlessly? And the way Thomas talked about it so casually, practically entertained at recalling it — it has your blood running thin and cold.

“…I—I’m not sure,” you say at last, piercing the silence. “The notes that Samuel left behind… they don’t make any sense at all. I don’t know how to describe it since I don’t know exactly what it is, but it feels misleading? Like a distraction. It’s just a notion I have it’s not—”

Thomas clamps one hand over your mouth with his free hand grasping your waist and hoisting you off to the side with all the gentleness of a farmhand moving hay bales.

You grunt your indignation and the thought of biting him crosses your mind just before he releases a shushing hiss in your ear. His hand peels off slowly and you gulp air in. He’s pressing himself flat against the building’s side, holding his arm against your chest to keep you from moving forward.

Seconds pass and he holds the position, going so far as to withdraw his firearm.

A few seconds more slip by in the motionless silence of the morning. You admit his sudden change of stance from twisted teasing to alert attention has you on edge as well. But… you don’t hear anything. Don’t see anything.

What on earth has him scared? Surely, he’s not messing with you, is he?

A flicker of movement catches your eye.

A glimpse of a shadow in a place it shouldn’t be, moving and shifting in ways it normally could not. It looks… _human_?

Whatever it is, it’s perched atop of the roof above you.

Slack-jawed panic sets in. You pull on Thomas’s sleeve and he swats your arm away to focus closer on whatever it is he’s concentrated on.

“… _Thomas_ ,” you say in half hiss, half whimper. Whoever is crouched overhead has stilled their movement.

You dig your nails into Thomas’s arm _hard_.

“ _Shitfuckingsake, woman_!” He responds with his own pained whisper and turns. Immediately, his eyes follow yours to the prowling shadow. Except the shadow no longer prowls.

It’s aloft and descending to strike.

The side of your head cracks hard against the ground from Thomas’s shove. The blow is dizzying enough to keep the sounds of a nearby struggle from your ears for a few head-shaking moments. Slowly, it registers, and you scramble to your knees.

Thomas is some few feet away, skirmishing with a hooded figure on top of him, the glint of metal slashing dangerously close between them.

Clambering to your hands and knees, you look about you. There has to be something, anything, you can use to help him. A rock or a piece of burnt wood or — one of the crumbled bricks from the building!

“It’s a good thing the Order has dumb sacks of shit like you filling its ranks,” an unknown voice calls out away the struggle. “Else this _may_ have been difficult.”

It calls out from behind you, and a slow turn around reveals worsening circumstances.

Not unlike a few days ago, the barrel of a gun clouds your vision while in a most vulnerable position. Only, this time, it is not the familiar face of Haytham Kenway. No, this stranger looks every bit intent on killing you at the slightest hostile movement — perhaps even without the need of one.

He, too, wears a hood similar to his counterpart and his eyes follow your body from the ground up, studying your face too long for comfort before he makes a toothy smile.

“Easy there, Thomas. We wouldn’t want your friend getting hurt here.” The man nearest you says while his roof-top perching companion subdues an angry-eyed Thomas after their initial struggle.

Hickey quiets his rage, and allows himself be pinned, but the man atop him gives him a rough punch to his gut for the trouble. He coughs and groans.

“She ain’t wiv us!” Thomas gurgles out from the pain of his stomach, heaving out a struggling breath for more to say. “Leave her alone!”

“Save it, Hickey, we already know.” The man before you stores his firearm and strangely replaces his hand where the gun was once settled in your vision. “Going to stay on the ground or stand, miss?”

Your vision darts from the two assailants to Thomas lying prone on the ground, clutching his stomach. Something isn’t adding up here. They seem every bit willing to attack Thomas, to threaten deadly force, but now this man is being _kind_?

“Wh-wh…” You stammer and try to speak, but you’re a mess of exhaled air and trembling confusion. And, as fetching as your blubbering is, the man standing in front of you rolls his eyes and scoffs.

“I’m sure you have lots of questions, but time is ticking and we really should get going. Now, are you going to stand up or do I have to _pick_ you up?” He asks and takes a step closer.

You automatically scramble backward toward the wall you had been forcibly pressed against not seconds before.

The man’s smile begins to waver into an upturned sneer. “If you’re going to be like that, then I may have to speed things along. Last chance — are getting up your way or my way?”

“Th-Thomas…” You look to him for some sort of guidance, some sort of indication. Even while grunting in pain on the ground he seems to have an idea of what’s going on, but...

Your gaze snaps back at the man very patiently waiting for an answer despite the hurried look on his face.

This is it. This is _them_.

The so-called boogeymen looking to end your life at the first chance given. Just as they did with Samuel. With Samuel’s family.

And just as they’ll do to both you and Thomas.

“...no, I-I can’t.” You say, shaking your head and eyes wide with fear.

“It can never be easy just once, can it?” The man says while approaching you and beginning to reach down. “Do me a kindness and don’t fight ba—”

The side of the burned house makes contact with your head as you jolt back from his touch. The man standing above you has a curious expression on his face — eyes wide then slowly becoming half-lidded as his eyes roll back and he falls to his knees.

And, after wavering for balance, he limply crumbles to his side.

“Lawrence!” The man occupied with Thomas turns to see his companion lying motionless in the grass. “The devil did you do, woma—”

Much like the first man, the second’s vision begins to cross and swirl before he, too, falls limp across Thomas’ prone body.

“Shitfuck!” Comes Thomas’s exclamation at the heavy body flopping onto his sore spot.

He pushes the limp body off himself and for the first time he’s able to sit up to see what is happening. First, the out of commission man in front of you. Then, your own frightened and confused expression. And finally, the second man seemingly also afflicted by whatever overcame the first.

“…did you do this?” He asks with furrowed brow but doesn’t wait for a vocal answer. Your disbelieving stare that he would even consider such a thing is answer enough. He groans as he gets to his feet and helps you onto yours.

“I-I don’t know what happened. He ju—just _fell_ over.” You say as Thomas shoves his boot heel into the chest of his attacker.

“Well, they ain’t dead. Not yet anyway.” Thomas retrieves a knife from its holster.

“Wh— Thomas!” You shout, and to your surprise it echoes through the early morning air reminding you just how quiet and quick the entire ordeal had been. You lower your voice to a harsh, but quieter tone. “ _You can_ _’t kill them_!”

“You may not have realized, _sweetheart_. But they wasn’t exactly going to let you n’ me both walk away.” Your words appear to do little to dissuade him as he removes the hood of the roof-top attacker, studying his face a moment. “Thought they’s all supposed to be dead ‘round here. ’Ayfam ain’t going to like this…”

“Yeah, he’s not the only one.” A familiar voice carries over the morning air. With a rifle bent over the crook of his arm in the midst of reloading, Shay makes his way into view from a stretch of trees.

At first, your heart flutters with relief — with both Thomas and Shay about, you felt safe should more assailants turn up, but realization is quick to rip that feeling away and tear it to bits.

 _Shit_.

If you weren’t going to be fully ratted out by Thomas before, surely you’re done for now. Thomas tends to bend the rules a little, but Shay? Not a chance. He’d tell Haytham everything before you could get in the door.

“Well, if it ain’t our ray of sunshine here to hit us with some morning glory.” Thomas replies to the grimacing man with a smirk of his own.

Shay continues making his way while reloading the rifle.

But the ammunition he’s using doesn’t appear to be normal bullets from what you can tell — even at this distance. No, the ends of them are puffed and colorful. Are those _darts_?

A quick glance at the bodies at your feet confirms — both of these men are in the middle of a deep slumber. Each of them are sporting a colorful dart in the meatier part of their arms.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Shay says, snapping the rifle shut with a menacing clap. “ _That_ _’s_ what I’m here for. To hit you with morning glory.”

His first steps are toward you, and you already feel yourself shrinking back from his disapproving gaze.

“Here,” he says with an outstretched arm offering his rifle. “Hold this.”

Surprised, but cautiously willing, you take the weapon in a delicate grip while being sure the muzzle points down toward the ground — finger off the trigger.

“Thanks,” he says.

There’s a brief smile on Shay’s lips before he whirls a swift punch straight into the nose of an unsuspecting Thomas. The poor man never stood a chance, hardly expecting an assault from his would-be rescuer.

He crumbles to the ground holding his face while groaning a string of curses and kicking out a leg.

The rifle in your hand fumbles somewhat as you’re startled out of you wits — the both of them now are locked in a yelling and cursing match with you stuck on the sidelines forced to awkwardly watch. Blood is trickling freely from Thomas’ nose, and Shay is looking every bit ready to make him bleed in other places.

“You and your _fucking_ shit-brained ideas, Hickey! You almost blew everything, **_everything_** we’ve done in one goddamned morning. Unbelievable!”

Shay’s quick to pick Thomas up by his coat, roughly shoving him against the burned out building. Thomas returns his actions in kind with a quick stomp on Shay’s boot toe followed with a knee to the his gut.

Instantly, Thomas is released and Shay reels back, clutching his stomach.

 _“Yeah_ and whose cocked up idea was it to keep her in the dark about the shit she should know?” Thomas closes a nostril with the press of his thumb, huffing out blood and mucus before he wipes his face on his sleeve and readies for Shay’s physical retort. “She was gonna come out here _by herself_ , you fucking idiot. If not on my watch, then someone else’s.”

“I’m right here, you know.” You reply, still holding the weapon that’s been entrusted to you.

Your words fall on deaf ears and the men continue their rather loud conversation. They seem content to leave you to your own devices and for a time your fear of death wanes into alert concern. No one yet seems to be approaching to see what the commotion is — so for the moment everyone is safe.

As they continue their squabbling, your concern falls into flat disinterest. If they’re going to tear themselves apart, you’re at least going to get a look about. Especially if you’re going to have to suffer through this nonsense.

Careful steps have you wandering back and staring over the remnants of the house. It could certainly have been pretty, whatever it looked like before.

But now it’s just a smudged end to the lives of a man and his family.

As you look over the blown-out interior and exterior, you notice some of the brickwork lay undisturbed by the fire. Perhaps it was too low to the ground for the consuming flames to reach — they even retain their earthy-red color.

But one of them seems… out of place. Jutting out far too much in comparison to the careful masonry of its kin.

A glance over to Shay and Thomas confirms that they seem to be of equal squabbling strength (when Shay isn’t throwing sucker punches) and you take careful steps around the hooded sleeping body to get to the brickwork.

The brick that seems all too eager to escape its prison looks _different_ upon closer inspection. Marked on its outer face is some kind of brand — an insignia maybe — that you haven’t seen before. You’re all too eager to set aside the curious firearm, squat down, and fiddle with the out-of-place brick.

It scrapes against its housing with some difficulty, but finally your prize pops free. And it is surprisingly light.

 _Suspiciously_ light, in fact.

You turn the brick to examine each side and on the oppose of its outer face you can see the entirety of the brick has been hollowed out for a small book.

How very _curious_.

“…what on earth is this?” You quickly stow away the hollowed brick and thumb open the small bits of parchment bound together.

_‘…pains me to say, is not something I fully understand. That such an object should exist is an affront to the creation of all mankind. An aberration from He we consider most holy. This heresy unto the face of God, this piece of so-claimed history, is not a sin I will unearth. And I will do my damnedest to…’_

You flip back and forth in the book, reading one passage and another, near its beginning and near the end. The beating in your chest would be deafening if it weren’t for Shay and Thomas’ squabbling.

This, currently in your hands, is none other than a collection of translations — and journal, it seems — by the late _Samuel Dunes_.

Brows furrowed in confusion, you flip immediately thumb through to find the section that had been your latest struggle — this maze that Samuel had mentioned that robbed you of no small amount of peace of mind. This is as close as you may come to an _answer_.

Aha!

‘ _…the cycle of this folly has persisted for thousands of years — each side taking a stance to do what they consider best for mankind. Those that would seek Freedom of Choice: the Assassin Brotherhood, and those who seek Truth and Guidance: the Templar Order. Each insist that it is they and their kind who bring about what it is needed for—’_

A tug at your leg has you falling from your squatted position onto your knees, book landing in front of you with your hands bracing yourself in dirt.

“ _Not one word_ _…_ ” Comes the slurred threat of the man on the ground behind you, one hand wrapped around your trouser leg and the other training that same pistol on your face.

Nap time, it seems, is over. And the few desperate glances you throw to Shay and Thomas go unnoticed — when they get into it, they _really_ get into it.

“Hand over what you’ve got there. _Slowly_.” He says, keeping his tone hushed and movements subtle.

Hand over what? You don’t have any money and anything of value you have is long gone. What does he— You glance at the book resting in soft grass unmarred by the long-passed fire.

“That’s right. Slowly, girl. Don’t draw attention.” He digs his hand into the flesh of your calf to drive the point home.

You wince at the pressure, but reach toward the book, grasping it with the tips of your fingers.

The whirl of movement is fast, _incredibly stupid_. But one you’re willing to take to avoid death.

The book sails back over your shoulder toward the assailant’s face and his hand on your leg releases its grip to capture the flying tome. In an instant, you turn on the ground, reach for Shay’s weapon and recall what he’d taught you some days ago.

Just as he had instructed. Line up the shot — _steady on, don_ _’t shake_ — aim, and fire.

Sadly, your assailant seems to be doing the same.

If the _thunk_ of the dart firing hasn’t caught Shay and Thomas’ attention, the pistol shot will.

Both of them turn to see the man on the ground with a dart lodged in his cheek and smoking gun in hand. And the blood seeping into the fabric of your shoulder.

“Fuck!” They cry out in unison.

Panting and wide-eyed, you return their stare as they rush over. Shay wrenches the gun from the man’s loosening grip and Thomas takes you up by your underarms to get you to stand. The grazed wound on your shoulder bleeds freely and the immediate mood between them seems to change.

“Hey,” he says.

You don’t respond, eyes still fixed on the slack-jawed man sleeping on the ground.

“HEY!”

Your eyes snap to Thomas and for the first time, you see genuine concern on his face. He studies your face a moment and grips the handle of the rifle. He’d have taken the gun from your hands too were it not clenched in an air-tight grip.

“Let’s put this down now, yeah?” He asks and looks to the body on the ground. “Good shot, though.”

It takes a moment to register the ache in your fingers from squeezing far too tight, but you nod. “Ye—yeah. Sorr—”

Another shot rings out, blood splattering near yours and Thomas’ feet.

“ _Ffffucks sake_ , you had to do that right now?!” Hickey asks through an upturned lip as he studies the newly red spray on his trousers.

Where there had once been a man dozing peacefully, there is now a corpse. Equally slack-jawed, but missing a chunk of flesh from its head.

“Shut it and get the other one. We have to leave. **_Now_**.” Shay warns.

The Irishman reaches for your hand and pulls, but you don’t move, still transfixed on the body in front of you that had been alive just seconds ago. He stops, _growls_ , and pulls harder.

“Unless you want us _all_ to end up like your friend here, we need to move before _his_ friends show up,” he says, pulling again and you quickly follow.

“What—what about Thomas?”

“He knows what to do — he’ll get the horses. Come on.”

You take a glance back — and instantly wish you hadn’t.

Thomas’s boot descends on the neck of the other sleeping man with a dull snap and crunch. Once, twice, thri— you turn yourself away once the blood begins to show. Were it not for Shay pulling you along so quickly, you’d empty your stomach of what little remains in it.

Shay guides you back to his horse grazing peacefully behind the treeline, mounting it and pulling you up behind him before the both of you set out. It’s a hasty ride through town and Shay appears to be taking a different route than Thomas had — perhaps his forward thinking is considering the path least-likely to be watched instead of the quickest. As unfamiliar scenery darts past, you begin to find it difficult to piece together everything you’ve seen.

Samuel _and_ his family are gone. The people who killed them still watch over where he lived. But _why_? Why wait around to kill anyone who comes near? Speaking of murderers…

You look up from where your face is pressed hard into the back of Shay’s coat, studying the concentrated hawk-eyed stare he has. That’s the look you’ve seen before on your last outing… And the question of whether that’s the same look he has when he kills flutters across your mind.

And Thomas — hell, Thomas and the rest… Do they all kill someone that easily? A spoken command and the deed is done?

Thoughts in your head swirl as quickly as the contents of your stomach.

This is all too much too fast — it was supposed to be a simple outing. An investigation to find out more, to see what was being withheld. But it’s messed up now. You’ve put Thomas _and_ Shay’s life in danger and were the sole cause for two men dying today.

You just wanted answers from a _goddamned_ _book_. Not this.

Not the blood, so much blood, or the fear or the ache in your pain-numbed shoulder.

The first tears sting your eyes, blinked away and choked back. And those that fade away are replaced by more and more still. You clench your eyes hard, gripping Shay tightly around his waist, and hope the rhythm of hoofbeats cover the sound of your choked sobs.

Had you been stronger, or perhaps more apathetic, the tears would have stopped shortly after they started. But they didn’t. Through the whole bumpy ride and even some time after arriving at the stables, you’re still sniffing and hiccuping your emotions into the worn-out softness of Shay’s coat.

He gently untangles your hands about his midsection, brushing warm fingers over your trembling hands before he dismounts, turns, and holds his arms out to offer you down.

You’re looking a frightful mess at the moment — hair mussed, eyes red from tears, one cheek rubbed raw from pressing into Shay’s back. Still, the smile he offers is a soft one and you reach out into his arms and slide off the horse.

You were expecting him to say something, anything to scold you out of doing anything like this again, to tell you how _foolish_ you’ve been, but he simply stands. His hand moves some stray hairs from your face.

“It’s a good thing we had some firing practice, mm?”

The laugh from your lips almost sounds like a sob and for a moment his face contorts into distress. “Yes, it… it’s a good thing we did.”

It’s hard to feel confident or even happy about attempting to protect yourself through non-lethal means. In the end, both mysterious assailants are dead — in equally horrifying ways. The heel of your hand wipes at your sore cheek and a flash of movement and warmth has you gasping out in surprise.

Shay’s arms wind snugly about your body with gentle care to avoid your hurt shoulder.

“Don’t do that again… Please.” The man’s superior height allows him to rest his head atop yours, settling your face to his chest and bringing on the full scent of him. “I didn’t think you would — that this would be so important that you’d try to — try to _run._ ”

He’s silent for a few seconds, still holding you close with your mind floundering in indecision to respond or move.

“Seeing you out there almost killed by Hickey’s stupidity — mine, too — I just… And then I _ignored_ you over some idiotic quarrel instead of getting you _out_.” The flow of his words has him progressively gripping you tighter. It’s almost uncomfortable, very close to being so, but you feel he _needs_ this moment to vent his emotions. “I understand now how important this is to you, and I — _we_ can’t tell you everything. Not yet, but you need to know…”

The strength of his embrace lessens enough to have your airflow less restricted. His hands knead gentle circles into your back some moments before he gently pulls you away to arm’s length. Those eyes are calm now, apologetic and pensive.

“…you can trust me — trust _us_ ,” he says, barely louder than a whisper. “What I said the day before, it wasn’t right of me. I won’t ask you to forgive me, but everything I do is to attempt to keep you from harm.”

His eyes rake over your body before resting on the bloody patch of your clothing stuck fast to your shoulder. The corner of his lip downturns somewhat.

“And I’ve cocked that up fairly well. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll be taking you to see our medic.”

It only takes a few minutes to tend to your wound — after some yelling, clenching/clawing at Shay’s hand he regrettably offered you to squeeze as the dried blood and clothing were separated, and application of stinging ointment.

Just a few painful minutes.

And, true to Shay’s words, Thomas follows the sound of screaming and stands in the doorway of the room as you pant out your relief on the table. Shay’s on his feet in an instant.

“Weren’t followed, yeah?”

“By wot? The ghosts of those dead shits?” Thomas says, offering Shay his hand in a rough handshake. Seems the two of them have come to an understanding in mere moments. He chuckles. “’M not cut out for these runnin’ and gunnin’ jobs. That’s s’posed to be yours and Lee’s department.”

Awkward tension flushes your cheeks as the two of them engage in their conversation and you’re forced to remain lying down while your shoulder is bandaged. You close your eyes and try to concentrate on something else, anything else. The shuffle of footsteps, though, has you opening your eyes and staring into another pair.

“Hey, now. Wot’s this? Y’been cryin’, missy?” Thomas asks bluntly, leaning over where you’re resting.

Were his nose not already swollen and blotchy, you’d hit him in it. But there’s no doubt in your mind that your eyes are red and puffy from your waterworks display. “Thomas. Don’t.”

Even after Shay’s imploration to trust the lot of them, you’re in no mood for any shenanigans.

“ _Don_ _’t_? And after all the kindness I’ve graced you with this morning.” He taunts further and it has your free fist clenching in unneeded frustration. He sidles closer, ever confident and curiously looking to stir an already thoroughly-stirred shitpot.

“I’m the one wot should be tellin’ _you_ don’t,” he begins. “ _Don_ _’t_ sneak out. _Don_ _’t_ threaten me wiv a knife.”

The words crawl along your skin like so many unneeded reminders of your failure, of the danger you all have narrowly escaped. You open your eyes, fist raised and angry words ready to spill out no matter how helpless you look at that second, but…

But.

“’N also, _don_ _’t_ drop shit that’s important.” He says, holding up the book that had been lodged into the brick wall.

Your jaw opens, closes. You blink out your confusion and distress.

“Nothin’ to say, love? Not even a thank you?” His lip curls into a smile. “Tell you what: you hold onto this.”

He places the small book on your chest, a bit too snugly to your barely-concealed breasts. Your hand instantly shoots up to it and your fingers curl about its binding.

“While me n’ Shay get our own shit looked at.” He ignores an indignant scoff from Shay. “Get some rest and getchur shoulder looked at proper.”

It’s a briskly refreshing change of pace for Thomas. He’s not exactly been unkind, but this is a tenderness that you haven’t seen from him. In your distress, you’d entirely forgotten about the book — about anything short of basic motor functions, really. But he’d been observant enough to retrieve it for you.

“You’re gonna need it for when you tell ol’ ‘Ayfam what you did.” There’s that cocksure smile again.

Your stomach drops, and the sickness you were feeling before is quickly rising. Looking down the barrel of _another_ gun today is the last thing you need. And you have the feeling Haytham will do nothing less at the discovery of your ‘outing.’

“Forgetting so quickly, Hickey? _You_ _’re_ the one who let her go.” Shay piques up, taking his moment to leave the room, no doubt eager for relief from his own injuries.

That wipes the smile off Thomas’ face in no time. And has a little smile growing on yours.

For whatever it’s worth, you won’t be the only one to face Haytham’s wrath this time.

-✩-

The last few words spill from your lips and silence dissipates into the room.

With the story finally told, the three of you sit with building anticipation for Haytham’s judgment. Reading the look on his face is difficult. It seems pensive enough, but could mean almost anything from such a calmly collected man.

“I daresay that your adventure could be classified as nothing less than a _fiasco._ ”

Haytham studies you and your accomplices for a moment before continuing.

“That said, a trove of more than useful information has been uncovered as a result. You’ve all made it out alive and made us more acutely aware of enemies we had thought were disposed of. A job well done, considering the circumstances.”

The silent sigh of relief between the three of you is almost tangible.

“But hear me well. This behavior, _this carelessness,_  is not something I’ll tolerate again. I expect better from you. I will have better from you. All of you.”

The rising ire of Haytham’s gaze transfixes those it lands on for a moment before it continues.

“As for this book, we will have a proper look through its contents come morning when all men are present. Its information is too great for one man to sift through, I fear. Carry on with your duties until then.”

Shay and Thomas seem to know the cue for an adjourned meeting and leave the room with well-concealed eagerness at having gotten off with a sound verbal warning instead of something much worse.

“And, young miss?”

You’re startled into sitting back down as you were making to stand, hands fiddling in your lap. “Yes, Haytham?”

“You will also be attending our meeting.” His gaze rests on your patched-up shoulder then shifts back to your face. “Just before sunup. Don’t be late.”

“Y…yes, Haytham.” You say at last and take your blessed cue to leave the room with your heart pounding in your head. Today’s morning has already been eventful enough. You shudder to think what could happen between now and tomorrow’s sunrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa what? It's another chapter!
> 
> And some other things! I've decided this story doesn't have nearly as much smut as I intended -- the next few chapters will fix that. For those of you who are enjoying the plot (and I do so hope there's one or two of you), my apologies, but I need it. It'll be rough trying to combine plot and smut while keeping my writing to reasonable length, but I'm willing to try. 
> 
> During that time, I'll also be experimenting with writing styles and lengths that should allow me to update more and progress the story faster, so please bear with me.
> 
> And hey! For all you people out there who use it, I've made a tumblr! darkchocolatepleasecake.tumblr.com 
> 
> We can gush over hot assassin men, send me some anon prompts/requests, or just geek about what we hope to see in future games. (If you have good AC blog recommendations, please send them!)
> 
> More to come soon! Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With established trust, healing can begin. Progress can be made.

Frayed nerves and frantic energy can only run without food for so long. And after a good cleaning and short rest, you find both Thomas and Shay seated in the dining room finishing off this morning’s leftovers. It’s awkward at first, asking them how their injuries are. And it’s only after several groans and requests to stop _fretting_ over them that you’re able to fill your mouth with food instead of apologies.

Still, food can’t keep you from professing just how awful, embarrassed, grateful, and… well, _scared shitless_ you are at the situation. Embarrassed for sneaking out while well aware of the danger, grateful for being saved, awful for getting them injured, and…

Images of the men who’d been alive some hours ago cross your vision and your fork clatters to your plate.

…scared for what more may come.

“I just… Thank you — both of you — for what you did today,” you start. Shay at your side and Thomas across the table look up from their meal. “I, uh… I realize I put your lives in danger, but please understand if I had known what would happen, I would have never —”

“Pass that gravy wontcha?”

Gravy? Your eyes dart across the table to spot and pass the gravy boat to Thomas. “Of-of course, here.”

What had been visible of Thomas’ meal is now liberally doused in gravy. Thickly poured and sticking to everything it touches. “Save the flowery stuff and don’t worry about it. ’S part of the job.”

“Even so, it was my meddling that has gotten us injured. That’s… gotten two men killed.” Really, no single man should be eating that much gravy. “…doesn’t that bother you?”

“The gravy?” He asks between bites.

“ _No_ , those men! Shay shot one and you— you— you just … _stepped_ on the other!”

Aside from an untimely snort of mucus into a rag from Hickey, neither of the two figures say anything. No remorse, no celebration, _barely_ an acknowledgment of the danger. Is all of this really just business as usual?

“… _really_? Neither of you feel anything over this?” Aside from pain of their injuries, you remind yourself.

“You realize this isn’t the first time we’ve…” Shay remarks, trailing off with obvious implication. The first time they’ve what? Kidnapped a person and forced them to work? Or killed someone in broad daylight?

“I know. I mean, I didn’t know for sure.” Hopefully, that wary glance toward Shay goes unnoticed. Thomas had been all too thorough in informing you about Shay’s _capabilities_. “But I had an… inkling about what the lot of you could do if necessary.”

“So, you had your suspicions and they’re confirmed after your adventure. Now what?” No more ‘adventures’ unescorted, that’s for sure.

The faint trails of a suspicion aren’t nearly as bad as seeing them come to life with such roaring ferocity. Not at all like seeing the blood on your trousers, chunks of flesh and bone on the ground, the ghastly look on that man’s face — what was left of it.

 _Lawrence_.

A man who had a name, had a life. And it’s gone now. Shame you know nothing

You return Shay’s questioning stare with a half-shrug. “I don’t — I don’t know. Finish the job, I suppose.”

“You ever think of anything aside from making trouble and working?” The gravy-loving fiend himself speaks, low and suggestive now that he’s done eating. “Look at you — shoulder shot and can barely stomach your meal. Why don’t we get sumfin else in ya?”

Seems that a broken nose won’t keep Hickey from being in playful spirits. The heated undertones of his words don’t go unnoticed as both you and Shay shoot him a questioning glare in unintended unison.

“ _Steady on_. I’m talkin’ about drinks. Be a good boy, Shay, and get us some, yeah?” He lowers his hands of surrender and taps near his nose lightly. “Need t’ ease some of this swellin’.”

Shay scoffs his amusement but leaves the table just the same. It’s probably not the _worst_ time for drinks, come to think of it. Anything at all to settle these nerves. Thomas, meanwhile, takes up the gentlemanly task of clearing the empty dishes from the table, and the kind act leaves you with a few moments of mental warfare with nagging guilt.

You’re alive and that’s what matters. _Wasn_ _’t it your own fault you almost died?_

No amount of guilt or apologies will bring those men back. _Shouldn_ _’t you be happy it was them and not you?_

You made your choices and your choices had… consequences. _What consequences will you suffer when you aren_ _’t so lucky?_

You groan and lean against the table with your face buried in your folded arms. Thomas and Shay make it look so easy. If they can shrug this off, why can’t you?

 _Because you_ _’re not a trained killer_ , you remind yourself through gritted teeth. And with a job as dangerous as this — a job in which two men have been killed after barely a week on Haytham’s pay — how much longer until your body is a part of the death toll?

The sound of footsteps in the hall has you pulling your head out of your arms and sitting more upright. Just in time, too, as Thomas and Shay round the corner with some bottles and mugs and serve generous portions of rum for a late-morning round of drinking.

Some idle chat is had during the first few drinks. But somewhere between your first mug and this one — what was it? Third? Fourth? — both men had begun to question you about today’s events.

“I already said I didn’t get a good look at the book before that man grabbed me,” you start. “At best, I can guess that it may have been Samuel’s.”

Shay casts you a sidelong glance. He’s long since dised his jacket and he relaxes with his shoulders hunched on the tabletop. That wonderfully firm shape of his is just a lowered eye’s glance away. “And what makes you say that? Since you didn’t get a good look and all.”

You choke a cough on your drink. Having your white lie immediately questioned wasn’t something you were expecting. Technically, you didn’t get the best look at it. Truth be told, you’re not even sure if you’d read it properly before being scared out of your wits. “I — _cough_ , I think it was Samuel’s because it was in _his_ house.”

He nods his understanding, but with a sharp mind like his, it’s unclear if he’s taken your words at full value.

“But enough with questioning me. What about those men? You know who they were, don’t you? What the hell were they doing on Samuel’s roof?”

“Who knows? Better view, probably.” Shay says with a smile toward Thomas who’s downing the rest of his mug. The cheeky ass is working on his sixth round.

“Hey now. We’re all frien— co-workers here, aren’t we? Don’t play dumb.” You scoff and huff a piece of hair from your vision.

“He doesn’t play dumb. Forgive him — his head’s gone soft.”

“Oh, piss off!” Thomas says, sliding a half empty bottle towards Shay with more force than necessary. The dark-haired man catches it just as it teeters on the table’s edge.

“They targeted you — targeted us. They waited around and _knew_ you. Thomas, one of them said your name!”

“Pretty common name all things considered.” Shay remarks, pouring his mug full.

Great. Denied answers again with that playful smirk of his ever-present. Neither of them is even trying to hide the fact that they’re keeping you in the dark anymore. It’s going to be more of this back-and-forth prattling while the hours tick closer to tomorrow’s meeting.

You absentmindedly run your finger around the wet rim of your mug. “I won’t be getting any upfront answers tonight, will I?”

“Not likely.” Thomas leans back into his chair and chuckles. “Have you tried asking the right questions? Work a little harder to get your answers?”

 _Work harder?_ If your eyes rolling into your head didn’t convey your answer well enough, you just as easily point to your bloodied and bandaged shoulder and watch the slow smile spread across both of their faces. Your attempt at working to get answers is evident. “You mean like _this?_ ”

Shay tsks. “Aw, don’t tease the poor lamb. Look at that face, Thom.”

“Breaks your heart, don’t it?” Both of them chuckle and sip at their drinks.

“Is that how it’s going to be?” And after you’d spent the morning being so concerned for them, too.

“That’s right.”

“’Fraid so.”

So much for that. Their lips are sealed even with alcohol in their systems. Whatever they’re holding on to, they’re not going to let it fall from their lips. Even after having discovered something potentially huge relating to Samuel’s translations and Haytham’s — what was it William called it — pursuit of truth?

Whatever the devil that’s supposed to mean it can wait until morning. You push yourself from the table and stand. “So, am I to take it that I won’t be told anything until tomorrow morning’s meeting?”

“’Fraid not.” Thomas says, still leaned back with a foot on the table. To think he’d do that in Haytham’s home. Perhaps the Grand Master is more patient and accommodating than presented.

“Fair enough, I suppose.” It’s hardly fair, but if they’re not going to do anything but dodge your questions, you can find better things to do. Perhaps another quick look at that passage Samuel had written about. There’s still a bit of warm, throat-stinging liquid at the bottom of your mug. You polish it off with a quick gulp.

“Leavin’ so soon, missy?” Thomas downs more of his drink and exhales a pleasured groan.

“Yes, I thought that if you didn’t wish to talk we could spend our time working, Thomas.” The man sets down his mug. His leg swings off the table while his chair’s legs hit the ground. Ah, so _that_ gets his attention. gets his attention. Pouring every ounce of somewhat-tipsy composure you have into speech isn’t hard. Mostly, you have to keep yourself from letting on that you’ve discovered his weak spot. “Are you coming, Thomas? I need someone to keep me out of trouble before I hurt my other arm.”

There may not be work to do today, but Thomas is still tasked with watching over you.

“Now just a moment, wait one second!” The short-haired man is on his feet in an instant, scraping the feet of his chair across the floor as he crosses in front of your path. “Let’s not be too hasty. You only just got yourself put back together. ‘M sure ‘Ayfam won’t mind if you take a bit of rest, yeah?”

The playful grin tugging at his lips accents the patch of white across his nose. Whether it’s the smell of alcohol on his breath or _yours_ , you’re not quite sure. But combined with the sight of his nose all bandaged up, he looks every bit the part of a bar-hopping ruffian.

You take a glance back to catch Shay who’s smiling wide and snickering to himself at the table. The two Irishmen catch eyes for a brief second, and you could swear there’s a spark of something in their eyes. Something _devious_.

“But the lady has a point, Thomas. There’s work t’be done. Wouldn’t do to _dally_ about.”

“Shut your mouth, Shay, and maybe she’ll listen to my suggestion.”

You glance back to Thomas.

“There’ll be plenty of work to do come morning.” He takes a step forward; you take a step back. “What with all the excitement today and your poor arm, how’s about we take a break today? You look like you could use one.”

“A break.”

“That’s right.”

“Doing… what, exactly?”

Usually, most attempts to dissuade you from working go ignored. Productivity and a love for learning flow through your veins and keep you occupied with your goals in mind. But the man has a point. There will likely be _plenty_ of work tomorrow.

And, much as you like finding refuge in books, the usual allure of translation and discovery is decidedly different in this job. Every page turned holds more questions than answers and a suffocating realization of the danger involved.

“’M sure we could think of some things to do. You and Shay had quite the time out in the yard last time you needed rest.”

For a brief moment, you thought Shay had been smiling at Thomas’ reluctance to see a round of drinking come to an early end. But now… now you’re not quite sure if it’s you who’s being entertained and who’s mere _entertainment_. And you inwardly, and very loudly, frown your disapproval. With them setting their twinned sights on you, it may be better to separate them.

“I appreciate the concern, Thomas,” you start to say, still taking steps back as he advances. Each step has Thomas gaining ground with you finding yourself backing toward the table. “But I assume I’m free to rest in my room?”

“’Course you can.” He presses himself closer, the smell of the alcohol on his breath becoming powerful as he steadies himself mere inches from your body. And you’re fresh out of retreating steps with your rear pressed against the tabletop. “Or we can help you take your mind off the pain, take care of your needs.”

“It hurts, but I don’t really ne—…” An instant’s processing snaps his implication into clarity. Did he offer to satisfy a _need?_ Weren’t those the same words that fell from Haytham’s mouth just a few days ago?

And judging by the way a smile edges across his lips, your face must look quite telling of your embarrassment. He chuckles and takes a swig from the bottle he’s been holding, licks his lips clean.

And holds the rim of the wet bottle toward you.

“Don’t have to do nuffin’ you don’t want to, but the offer’s on the table.” He playfully pulls the bottle just out of your grasp as you reach toward it. That licentious gaze roams your body down and up again. “You can be on the table too, if you want.”

You swallow the knot forming in your throat. Is Thomas Hickey is not-so-soberly offering to do _lord knows what_ to you right on top of Haytham’s table? This very table. Haytham Kenway’s _dining room table_. Where he eats his meals and presumably entertains guests.

“ _Thomas_ , you can’t be serious!” You hiss out softly, barely above a whisper as you grip the edge of the surface to steady yourself.

“That’s fine if you don’t want to. But I meant wot I said. Table or floor or bed — don’t matter to me. Say the word and I’ll get you feelin’ right.” He downs several gulps, throat bobbing with each mouthful as he drains half the bottle. Christ, he can _really_ hold his drink. He stares on after he has his fill, his eyes searching your face and body for subtle tells of willingness.

Your hand reaches out to his, taking the green bottle in hand. And after a delicate sniff to its contents you take a sip. And knock back a gulp. And another, coughing when the potent brew stings your throat. He laughs mirthfully a moment and makes to speak but finds himself silenced as you throw your head back, downing the rest of the bottle’s contents with a throaty sigh.

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to, Thomas. I said I didn’t think you were serious.” You wet your lips to soak all the alcohol you can on your tongue. Unlike the last time you were offered to have your needs tended to, you have no intention of being taken by surprise.

Thomas, though, is always full of surprises.

“Good.” Is the only vocal warning you’re given as Thomas presses himself into you.

The surprised gasp on your lips is the first thing he takes from you in a deliciously rum-soaked kiss. Wet and winding the taste across both of your tongues. His hands set sights on your rear next. Even with the table in the way, he grasps your ass in groping handfuls, pulling and playing with the softness there.

Soft murmurs spill from your mouth into his, and he is quick to take those from you as well, devouring your sounds with hungrier and hungrier kisses, probing searches with his tongue. He lifts you by your rear and seats you on the table with his busy hands continuing their exploration.

“Fuck, you taste good.” He huffs out, a bit breathless as he positions you on the cool surface.

“That—” You clear your throat, trying to find your senses to speak clearly. “That’s just the rum, Thomas.”

“Is it now?” He considers you thoughtfully a moment, while his eyes drink in your sitting form — a picture of being ready and willing while perched on the thickly wooded table with your legs hanging free. Given the opportunity, he’d probably drink you, too. “Well, since you drank wot I had and it tastes so _good_ …”

He leans behind you, yanking a bottle into existence from beyond your vision. Two gulps later and he slams it back onto the table, wrapping his free hand in your hair to pull you in for a fierce kiss. It starts eagerly and a second later the sweet taste of intoxicating liquid flows past his parted lips into yours.

Your eyes widen in surprise, tongue swirling in the shared taste with his hand tangled knuckle-deep in your hair as he savors every pass of his tongue against the warmth of your mouth. It takes some time to steady your breath and accept his unusual gift. And even then a bit of liquid dribbles from the corners of his mouth and yours before the two of you part for air and lick faint traces away.

Looking at him in disbelief has you rewarded with him grinning back as he removes his coat. If he’s only just getting started, you shudder to think what _more_ he has planned. But he clearly has no intention of slowing down. Initially, his coat falls away; his overshirt and undershirt follow pursuit to join together in a mass of clothing on the floor.

Despite some of his more… lackadaisical tendencies, his body is every every bit as fit and firm as you’ve seen from the others. He never looked to be in terrible shape, but he did opt for a less impressive style of dress than his counterparts. With the clothes he chose, there had never quite been an opportunity to get a good look. But now he allows your eyes to feast. Encourages it, really.

And, much as you would like to deny it, it isn’t the first time you’ve ogled the bodies of your employers and the way they dress. Memories come flooding back. Of that day in the yard with Shay while he practiced. And again when he was calmly observant in your bedroom. Good God, you can even recall William’s attractive shape beneath that tartan shawl. Not to mention the trembling memory of Haytham’s impressive and powerful form knelt between your legs. Even Charles’ cleanly tended appearance hasn’t escaped your notice.

The style and direction of the others is certainly profound. But Thomas, all smirks and toothy chuckles, keeps things a bit simpler. More direct. “That one taste good, too?”

You’re nodding before you can stop yourself from such an embarrassing admission. The tantalizing sensation of soft lips and hard teeth with sweet, potent tastes still lingers on your tongue. It’s only after the kiss when you place a hand to your lips to wipe the corners of your mouth that you recall the soft groaning sounds you both made while kissing in the now-silent room.

“Hah, I’ll get you _feelin_ _’_ good, too.” He presses wet, faintly sticky kisses along your jaw and neck while his hands undo your shirt buttons and expose your chest to the cool air. Softly chuckling his amusement and desire, he’s quick to descend and bury his face between your mounds like a starved man.

“Th-Thomas.” You shudder out his name. Christ, he’s fast to take what he wants.

“Mmn?” He asks, voice vibrating against your ribs. “Wot is it?”

“Is this really the best place? Won’t they need the dining room soon?”

By _they_ , you mean the staff who keep Haytham’s property running as smoothly as it does. With as secure and proper as the man likes to keep things, you very much doubt any of his employees would be late to do their work. Or overlook you and Hickey doing the unspeakable on the table.

“Heh, probably.” He quips as his hand runs up the length of your stomach, fondling the softness of your breast and nipple before he guides you gently back against the table. Perhaps the benefits outweigh any possible consequences for him, but it’s still beyond you how the hell he can be so calm, almost brash, in the face of being caught. “Don’t worry about it. Can make this as quick or slow as you like.”

Heart thumping in your chest, you rest against the cool tabletop, shirt crumpling against your back. And a quick glance upward dissolves the excitement that has been pleasantly rising in your core.

Your breath hitches in your throat and you swallow. Once to clear your airway and again to try to find words. But for the moment your voice has left you and your eyes are locked with another pair of russet brown eyes.

_How on Earth could you forget Shay has been across the table the whole time?_

Shay Cormac is watching Thomas set you upon the table with a look of mild amusement. Wordless and completely at ease. Sitting with a bottle in hand taking a soft swig now and again.

His brows arch when you try to sit up only to have Thomas press a hand to keep you firmly in place. A questioning glare toward the undressed fiend gets you nothing, he merely chuckles and begins undressing you as well.

Excellent. Trapped between a Hickey and a hard place. You glance up to Shay and smile weakly.

He sucks down another long drink from the bottle. “Enjoying yourself, lamb?”

Something from his speech, or perhaps the look in his eyes, causes a shudder to wrack your body. While Thomas eagerly removes your pants and undergarments, Shay steals admiring glances down your body and bare lower half. He holds that calm and observant look on his face even after Thomas kneels to hook your legs onto his shoulders and presses his mouth against your folds to make you squirm and mewl on the table.

Heated embarrassment at being watched sends blood rushing through your head. It’s not at terribly unlike the first time Haytham had taken it upon himself to see to your pleasure. It would be safe to assume Thomas had gotten the idea from Haytham himself were it not for the hurried probing of his warm fingertips to spread you open. The so-called Grand Master had been much slower, much more careful in making you come undone.

“Y-yes…” You answer Shay’s question with some considerable delay.

The distraction can’t be helped from the way Thomas laps and nibbles at your entrance to slick you up. It’s so drastically different from Haytham’s technique — but no less thought-dissolving. Goodness, that tongue of his is almost as good as Haytham’s.

Those same words spill from your lips, eased out by pleasure and alcohol.

Shay sputters mid-sip, looking to you with surprised amusement in his eyes. “ _What_ did you say?”

The combination of lust and alcohol had your lips echoing anything that comes to mind, but now with flustered embarrassment coloring your cheeks, you remain remarkably silent. Mentioning Haytham was _not_ something you planned to do.

Your back arches off the table, mouth opening to let out a pleasured cry when Thomas presses a finger knuckle-deep into you. A few probing thrusts later and a second finger joins the first to splay and stretch you open, freeing Thomas’ mouth for other sorts of endless teasing.

“Said I was as good as ‘Ayfam, she did.”

 _Almost as good._ You mentally correct him as his lips split in a crooked grin while his wrist writhes and guides his fingers into places that have you shivering.

“Y’hear that, Shay? Miss sweetness has already had a taste of the boss.”

“I heard.” There’s something a touch different in Shay’s reply. His voice was light, almost jovial as he first watched you. But now his voice has lowered into something else. Something _dark_. “And here we were thinking we needed to take care of you, but you’ve already had some relief.”

The tablecloth beneath you begins to wrinkle as your hand twists and claws for leverage when Thomas latches onto the hood of your clit with hard sucks and licks. Every so often, he gives a chuckling groan for vibrating stimulation. You whimper out your blend of pleasure and embarrassment. Looks as though you may have been caught in a cleverly laid trap after all.

“What was it that you and Haytham did, lamb?”

You open your eyes to see Shay standing over you with a curious look. Almost calculating and barely restrained. And you try to answer his question earnestly, but the only things to come from your lips are wanton cries.

You swallow air and close your eyes, mind swimming in waves of delight as Thomas presses his tongue into your pussy alongside his fingers. He chuckles again, sending even _more_ delicious shocks through you when you card your fingers in his short hair.

“Think she might be holding out on us, Hickey.” Shay looks down your body at his cohort. The opposite man smiles wide enough to feel against your opening. He gives one last swirl of his tongue and withdraws.

“Y’best answer the man, love.” Pulling at Thomas’ hair does nothing to coax him to continue. He stays knelt between your legs, faint stubble of his shaved face rubbing against your inner thigh. You groan your frustration and his mischievous smile flourishes.

“What happened?” Shay asks, forearms resting on either side of your head as he leans forward, close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath. Close enough to recognize that carnal look in his eyes. He glances toward your mouth and gives a small smile. “Did he taste you? Did he do this?”

His lips descend hungrily onto yours. With such an angle, both of your mouths in opposite directions, it feels strange when he nibbles on your lower lip. And even stranger still when his tongue presses your lips apart for him to explore. Just like Thomas, he tastes marvelous from too many rounds of drinks.

“You can tell us. C’mon.” Thomas’ voice rumbles against your thigh as he, too, begins to kiss and bite you there. The double-teamed assault on your body is slowly but surely melting your brain’s ability to make appropriate decisions. Every moan, each biting kiss and shared taste of each other has your body roaring for more.

Shay disconnects from the kiss, licks his lips. “Or we could stop now.”

He laughs at how quickly your hand reaches to the nape of his neck to keep him close. And he stares on, fully expecting an answer. Words would come out so much easier if Thomas weren’t pressing his thumb against your slit, rubbing gentle circles. “I… _nngh_ , I snuck into his room. T-tried on his clothes. He found me.”

The two of them exchange an amused glance. “Damned foolish of you. Surprised he didn’t end you on the spot.”

You try to brush aside the memory that he _almost had_.

“And what happened after?” Shay rubs his hand along your chest, watching it rise and fall with every needy breath. Soon, he’s running his fingertips along your collar and further down. Past the valley of your breasts to your stomach and back up again.

“He… _ahh_ , he undressed me.” Your back arches against the table when Shay rubs your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Is this a reward for being forthcoming? You swallow another groan and continue. “And used his mou— _mouth_!”

And again, your throat releases a shameless groan when Thomas resumes his starved assault on your pussy. Two fingers fill you and stretch; his lips wrap onto your clit while his mouth sucks harder and fingers thrust deeper than they had before. It seems the men above you are enjoying hearing about your time with the Grand Master, even in the midst of their distressing unison in pleasuring your body.

Shay’s traces his thumb around your lips, first the upper then lower, before pressing gently in a bid for entrance. Instantly, you take the warm digit into your mouth, sucking and licking needily. “He only used his mouth on you?”

You nod, biting onto the knuckle of his thumb and thrusting your hips into Thomas’ hungry mouth.

Something faint in the back of your mind tells you that perhaps there’s good reason that Thomas is responsible for intelligence gathering. Just a few minutes with his mouth and you’re ready to tell him almost anything.

Your breath hitches at another thought — does he ever request Shay’s help with particularly difficult individuals? The idea, however far-fetched, fogs over what little is left of your hesitation with lust.

“Would you like more than a _mouth_ today?” The groaning reply with your mouth wrapped around his finger doesn’t seem to satisfy him. He withdraws it and asks again. “Use your words.”

“Yes,” you gasp out a groan. “ _Please._ I would.”

He dips down for a quick kiss. “You heard the lamb, Thomas.”

“I heard, I heard. Keep her quiet or the maids’ll hear.” The short-haired man wastes no time and gives your cunt one last kiss before he stands. His belt and trousers fall away to pool at his ankles and he gives his handsome cock a few pumps. “Shit if I haven’t been thinkin’ about this.”

So, the two of them — or at least Thomas has been fantasizing about a promiscuous romp?

He eases you down from the table to kiss you, potent and dizzying, and turns you around to grant himself an eyeful and handful of your rear. While he busies himself with that, you in turn have a sight before you that robs the breath from your lungs.

Shay’s knelt on the expanse of the dining table, nude from the waist down with a hand carefully pumping his hardness. That look in his eyes, though, there’s something sparking behind them as he reaches a hand out to wind in your hair.

The moment you dare stop to appreciate Shay’s form, Thomas makes his own impossible to ignore. Those rough fingertips grip at the plushness of your rear to angle you out on the tips of your toes, hips forward against the table. Shay chuckles soft amusement when you crane your head back to watch. With one hand caressing the cleft of your ass, the other holds his length to guide himself into the depths of your entrance.

He hisses out though his gritted teeth, smiling down at you when both hands grip your waist to brace you for his first thrust. It’s hard. Rough. _Dirty_ just like the rest of him and you shudder out a moan.

“Lamb?” You look up at Shay in half-lidded need. Watching Thomas’ hips rhythmically bounce against your ass was an embarrassingly mesmerizing thing, but now the sight of Shay removing the dark colors of his overshirt catches your eye. He smirks and pulls you downward. “Do me a kindness and open that pretty mouth.”

The timbre of his voice, pleasantly rumbling, sets off something within you. There’s a flash of a hot shiver that tingles across your skin and has you shuddering in Thomas’ grip. He groans and chuckles his amusement at the feeling of you clenching around him. “Oi, she _liked_ that one, she did.”

Shay’s free hand runs its thumb across his wet tip, bringing the digit to your lips to be licked and sucked clean. The way his face contorts at the _feel_ of what your mouth is capable of pools even hungrier desire low in your stomach. You smile and bite down gently on the finger rubbing against your tongue.

It’s not easy while being bounced against the table, but you steady yourself on your good forearm. And the dark-haired man before you is all too happy to guide himself into your welcoming mouth. Past your lips and teeth to press the pulsing, leaking head of his cock against your tongue.

“We’ve talked about this, you know. What we would do if you needed company.” He purrs out the words between groans and utters a small chuckle when you glare disbelievingly. Hard to look terribly threatening with a lust-masked face and a cock in your mouth. “Not like that. We wanted to find a way to make ourselves… available. Without offending you.”

His hand cards itself through your hair. The tempo of your gentle bobs slowed at his admission but resume a gentle pace when he clarifies. Suppose it’s not the worst thing in the world to have two handsome men trying to find the best way to approach you. Still, you drag your teeth up the length of Shay’s cock, popping him free with a wet sound.

“I’m not _entirely_ offended,” you begin, voice stuttered in bouncing breaths. Shay’s eyes are caught with the indecision of watching your lips as you talk or your hand as it smoothly pumps him. “But that doesn’t— _nnggh!_ ”

A sharp crack of pain stiffens you from the base of your spine up, dissolving your sentence into a whimper.

“Christ, this _ass_.” Thomas remarks, either unaware of uncaring of your conversation. Both of the hands guilty of slapping your twin cheeks take the opportunity to do it again. _Slap_. And the flesh of your rear shakes from the impact. He sputters out curses and pulls himself closer, bouncing you solidly with the power of his lust. “You’re a thing of beauty, you know that?”

“Easy, lad. You’re supposed to ease pain, not cause more.” Shay admonishes with his voice while his hands gently coax your mouth toward his cock. The glistening head is just as wet as your pouting lips gasping for air, and his eyes flare for the briefest moment. “You all right?”

Darkness clouds your vision when you close your eyes and nod. Some minutes ago, you were all right. Now, with pleasure singing in your blood and relief so close, you’re fast approaching _excellent._ You open your eyes and give him a small smile, tongue peeking out to pass over your lips. “I’ll be better when I cum.”

A burst of devilish radiance shows in his grin. “I’d say so. Let’s get you there.”

It’s not long until the both of them are pulling at you in need. The sounds of bodies lost in ecstasy fill the dining room and any considerations toward staff have long been forgotten. There is only you, Shay, and Thomas this moment. Clawing and thrusting and groaning your needs until the point of breaking.

Shay’s first to burst with one hand gripping the base of his cock and the other pulling you away by your hair. He touches his cock one last time to your lips, pumping himself hard and fast enough to bump your chin. And he groans, angling your head away at a comfortable slant as white ropes of cum jettison across your back, splattering his warmth across your bare skin.

The sight and feel of his warmth spilling, of the _sound_ of pure pleasure escaping his throat as he does so has you shivering out your own release on Thomas’ dick. And the short-haired man follows close behind, pulling his twitching length from you to jet his pleasure to mix with Shay’s, painting an unexpected picture of self-indulgent pleasure across your flesh and parts of the tablecloth.

Weary pants and satisfied chuckles tinge the air for a few moments after and you make to roll over and alleviate some of stickiness on your skin. Shay and Thomas both hold down you by your good arm and rear respectively.

Shay interrupts your protest. “Just a moment, lamb.”

And then you feel it. The gliding warmth of a wet tongue lapping at the small of your back. It sends a shiver through you that crinkles your toes. And yet it still climbs, licking and tasting the expanse of your skin and the mess made upon it.

“ _Th—Thomas_ …” The word is spoken silk on your tongue, a gasp of appreciation and surprise at a most unusual gesture.

That’s when Shay leans forward.

And the same sensation is twinned upon your shoulder blades, spanning ever downward and across your sensitive skin until the pressure on your arm and rear subside. Those same cleansing tongues leave you, too.

And then you hear it. Soft and distinctly familiar. You roll to your side, pinned under the two bodies above you in a stunning show of afterlust. Thomas with his hand fisted in Shay’s hair to keep the man from escaping a tongue-filled kiss. With the way Shay’s softly growling into his mouth, though, that seems to be the furthest from his mind. The two stay that way, tongues and teeth clashing against each other in a bid for dominance punctuated by throaty chuckles.

An unwilling spectator bursts the mesmerizing moment, though.

“God in Heaven, what do you think you’re _doing?_ ” A voice calls from the hall. It’s a familiar one that usually carries its tones of displeasure, but now. Well, now it simply sounds furious.

Thomas perks up first, breaking the kiss to shoot a shit-eating grin across the hall. “Just followin’ ‘Ayfam’s recommendations, Charles. You know the way it goes.”

“Not in the damned dining room and not on the blasted furniture!” There’s not a mustache large enough to hide his grimace of pure displeasure. And perhaps a hint of disgust.

Thomas does well to wipe that look off his face with a half-hearted salute. “Yes, sir. Won’t happen again, sir.”

Charles leaves with barely concealed furor and for several brief moments after his departure a thick silence fills the room. Silence and the smell of sex. Still pinned under the two of them and feeling a bit sore, you speak your thoughts.

“Are… are we in trouble?”

“What, from _Charles?_ ” Thomas scoffs. “Naw, wound-up sod’s probably gonna go have wank right now.”

“Wha— _Thomas!_ ” What comes out as an attempted scold folds over into laughter. They both ease back and help you to your feet, a bit wobbly, but no worse for wear than before.

“He’s right, though.” The raven-haired man picks up his many discarded layers of clothing. “Have you seen yourself, lamb? Hard not to have sinful thoughts.”

You roll your eyes away at the lewd, would-be compliment and make to speak, but the caress of Thomas’ hand cupping your ass dams your words before they can flow. The warmth of his chest on your back spreads and he presses a heated whisper into the soft skin on your shoulder. “Your shirt an’ trousers an’ underthings.”

“Oh. Thank you.” You accept the proffered garments he’s been so kind to pick up. As perverted as he is, he seems to be a step down from his Grand Master — your underwear is still present for redressing. Thankful for it, you begin to dress yourself. As do they. “But what’s all this about Haytham’s recommendations?”

They exchange a curious glance with neither of them looking terribly eager to answer your query. In fact, looking between them now there’s a trace of something you can’t quite place. But you get the feeling the feeling that… perhaps details about Haytham were not meant to be shared.

“Well?” You ask, slipping on your last pieces of clothing. “Just what are you hiding from me?”

“Honestly?” Shay remarks, walking to join you and Thomas on the other side of the table. He offers what’s left of a bottle of rum to his partner in crimes of seduction, intimidation, and lord knows what else.

“A lot.” Thomas finishes his companion’s thought with a smile; he drinks from the near-empty bottle and offers it out to you. “But don’t worry. You trust us, don’t you?”

The rim of the bottle is wet from having its contents drained between the two men. You can still taste it — sweet and sticky on the back of your tongue. Looking up to them both shows them staring back, expectant and almost teasing.

If this is the first in a series of steps to being able to have some amount of agency, some amount of mutual trust and goddamned _clarity_ , you’ll take it. The bottle to your lips is emptied in seconds and slammed brazenly on the table.

“For now? Yes.”

Tomorrow morning will show whether or not this trust is misplaced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super sorry for the delay, folks. Something about this chapter leaves me feeling really dissatisfied, but it is what it is. Next up we should be seeing a lot more plot next chapter. Like a lot lot. Too much plot, maybe? We'll see.
> 
> And, as always, thanks for reading and being generally amazing people who read my filth! (It's about to get filthier, I swear.) 
> 
> I'm open for critiques and feedback and whatever nonsense on my Tumblr. Come say hi.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tales of dead men reach the ears of those willing to listen.

The morning of the intended meeting, in the warmth of the ground-floor study, there are rumblings of idle conversation in the air. After a serving of tea and morning tidbits to snack upon, you, Haytham, and his familiar band of men take their seats to begin what seems to be a long-winded talk. And the talk — if it can be called that — seems more and more like the retelling of a fairytale as it goes on.

Every so often in the midst of the tale, you glance up, disbelievingly, at one of the others seated in their armchair semicircle. Each time they return a serious stare of their own.

The warmth and playful charm is gone from even Shay’s and Thomas’ eyes. With business to conduct for the day, they've taken to the task with surprisingly alacrity. Sitting next to each other, waiting in silence for William’s voice to finish rumbling. Even after it does, your mind takes several seconds to skip up to speed.

“I — that…” You clear your throat, take a breath, and try again. “ _Gentlemen_ , as riveting as a tale that is, I thought we were here this morning to conduct business?”

You make your intentions to work clear. Surely, there’s better things to do today than bombard you with nonsense. But they taut their nonsense as fact. Charles even goes so far as to repeat its telling while adding rather gruesome details that William had overlooked. The history of their organization is a bloody one, it seems. It’s not a story that inspires trust even with Shay and Thomas’ encouraging sidelong glances.

A touch of a frown signals your frustration in the breakdown of communication. It’s the exact signal Haytham uses to pause Charles.

“Twice now you’ve been told the history of our organization.” He says, reaching to the low-lying table in the center of the room to refill his cup with tea. “You still fail to understand our purpose?”

“Understand?” You take up your tea William has so carefully given you. “I can scarcely find reason to believe that these—these _cults_ you speak of even exist!”

The details that have been unceremoniously dropped into your lap are not exactly palatable. Your so-called guards, for the better part of an hour, have been playing the parts of raving loons. Both William and Charles had carried on about Templars, Assassins, ancient beings, items of power, and a struggling conflict older than written history.

And while it sounds like the beginnings of a lovely fantasy novel, the seriousness they take to the subject is startling. Unsettling.

On second though, you set aside your tea. Lord only knows what they’ve put in the damn thing.

“Haytham,” you start. “With all the respect I can muster, this is — well, frankly, this entire affair is imbecilic. You expect me to believe that mystical, ancient creatures beyond our understanding tasked you with creating an idyllic society?”

The offense on Haytham’s face at your word choice — particularly the sting of _imbecilic_ — washes away quickly as he considers his words. He stands from his seat and paces carefully with his cloak billowing behind. “Your belief is not necessary. The only thing we require is your understanding. If you recall, you had questions; we are now providing answers. It is of no concern to me how unlikely you may find them to be.”

You will away the need to roll your eyes. Again with the cold impartiality. You glance toward Thomas and Shay with a dry look. Haytham can’t be serious. _None of them_ could possibly be taking this seriously. …could they?

Haytham continues. “Now, my lady, if you’d be so kind?”

You tear your gaze back to Haytham, unsure. “I…? I’m sorry?”

“To wit, if you could provide us with your understanding that we might continue with our business for the day.”

It’s not much, but the mention of doing something that _finally_ makes sense at the horizon of this conversation sets you into motion. You clear your throat to prepare to recite the nonsense they’ve attempted to spoon-feed you. As long as they are willing to pay, they can keep their illusory beliefs to themselves. All you need to do is remember what you’ve been told.

“From what I understand, there are Assassins — such as the men who attacked us before. And Templars — men like you all. As it stands, these two groups have been waging an ongoing struggle with each other to… _steer_ the reins of mankind.” It was so easy to start, but now as details grow more and more ridiculous, your tone loses warmth. “Assassins foolishly seek to let man run unguided, and Templars wish to give mankind proper direction. Have I gotten that part clear?” Haytham nods for you to continue.

You sigh briefly and try to recall the details — there have been so many spouted already.

“And… And before that, before recorded history, there were beings who existed. Beings powerful enough to create items that can destroy — I’m sorry — you said entire _cities_ in seconds?” That last bit is spat out with unrestrained disbelief. To have that sort of power… it would take armies — no, fleets of warships lined up end to end and then some to destroy a city as big as Lisbon.

“Aye.” Shay’s gaze isn’t on you when he speaks. The bottom of his mug holds his attention. Seems he requires something stiffer than tea. “Can’t prove the things we’ve seen, lamb. But we’ve seen them.”

“Go on.”

You swallow at Haytham’s instruction and take in a breath. “Yes. Well, the Assassins are out to recover these items and…” You motion a hand in the air. “…do what with them? You haven’t exactly said what their goal is.”

“They don’t have a goal. Or a plan. That’s the problem.” William’s low voice rumbles as he adjusts himself in his seat to offer you a biscuit. “Artifacts that strong need to be left as they are or locked away. And Assassins in their eternal idiocy will grasp with meddling hands at whatever they can. ”

“And, to prevent the Assassins from… _interfering_ , I suppose? Templars now try to outpace the Assassins. Stay a step ahead and keep them from doing damage?”

“Correct. Which leads us to needing you—”

“Bullshit.”

_“I beg your pardon?”_

“That’s the biggest crock of bullshit you’ve tried to feed me since I’ve been here.”

“I’ve already said your belie—”

“Not that.” You interrupt. “For a single moment, assume I believe any of this. Ancient beings and age-old wars and magical artifacts aside, you’re telling me that Assassins who seek freedom of choice are more meddlesome than Templars who want utter control?”

There’s a small offended huff from one of them.

“You mean to tell me that none of you — _not a single one of you_ — would use a found item to boost the influence of Templars? To destroy Assassins? To keep mankind in order?”

“You would rather have a flock of sheep go unshepherded? Drown themselves in a river by the weight of their own wool or succumb to cold and hunger? Or perhaps you would prefer the wolves to take them quickly?”

You raise a hand in hopes to slow Haytham’s rising distaste in your opinions. “I didn’t say which I prefer. It only seems to me that the shepherd is in need of his shepherd’s hook. A tool to guide. An item to manipulate. It’s not love and trust of the shepherd that keep the sheep to the flock — it’s the other sheep. What _I_ _’m_ saying is that… it seems to me of the two groups, Templars need these tools the most.”

Some of the men exchange glances. William gingerly speaks first. “We may look to further our understanding by studying things we find, but their use is not something we require.”

The sweet man has an even sweeter tongue for sure. Pity it doesn’t seem to be doing anything for you at the moment. “I don’t appreciate being misled, gentlemen. These secrets and lies and misdirection aren’t going to get me to trust you.” Haytham pauses his steps. “…I’ve been asked recently to… begin trusting you. I’m willing to do that. But not in the face of further deception.”

The breath in your lungs stills as Haytham slowly turns. The pounding in your chest thrums into your ears. Really, this is all a more stressful start to the morning that anticipated. Conflicting ideologies and insane stories… What next, another Assassin attack?

“You truly think we would use such items to further our power?” He asks plainly.

“I have no reason to believe you wouldn’t.”

“What difference does it make to you if we would?”

A good question. One that would require you to _believe_ that all of this nonsense is actually true. You cast your glance to the side a moment before carefully trailing it back to Haytham’s icy concentration. “To me? It wouldn’t. Not really. You’ve shown you have power and resources to get what you’re looking for — before me and possibly after me. To others who don’t want to be under your influence… I’m sure they would appreciate me declining helping you. But I don’t have much choice in the matter, do I?”

“Quite the opposite. You made your choice and we are simply carrying out the effects of that arrangement.”

 _Really?_ Has he so quickly forgotten his own part in the threats and secrets he used to all but bind you and drag you to his estate? “Haytham. If we’re to continue our contract, there are some things I would like to say.”

He chuckles and turns back to his seat, prepping himself another cup. “This should be rich. Please, do continue.”

A heated flush of embarrassment sends your thoughts turtling themselves under his mocking tone. “With the way I’ve been treated in the past… And yesterday… when I saw how quickly Thomas and Shay went to my defense and killed those men. There’s a hesitation you and your men do not possess — no caution or pause for threatening or _taking_ the lives of others except the time it takes to consider whether or not you will be caught.”

“Your point, my dear?”

“Impartiality to life like that? That’s a poor way to steer mankind. Worse still if you have a weapon that can destroy an entire city of dissenters.”

“You would have preferred, I wonder, that Shay and Thomas stayed their hand when protecting you?”

You furrow your brow slightly, muscles becoming tense.

“Would you rather be dead, my intrepid translator? Or would you enjoy the responsibility to make hefty decisions at a moment’s notice? To have the weight and burden of the consequences resting on your shoulders? To have _lives_ lost because a choice you made was potentially less-than-perfect?”

“No,” you say quietly, avoiding his gaze. “But I still deserve the choice. A choice I assume Templars would take from me if it were deemed incorrect.”

Haytham stirs a lump of sugar and scoffs. “You would fit in quite well with the Assassin ideology. Perhaps if we hand-delivered you to them, you would have moments to empathize muchly with them before they lodged a blade in your neck.”

You swallow the lump in your throat.

“My point, Haytham, is that if Assassins are so wrong and men are _so_ unfit to steer themselves, then what right do you have with hands that are _just_ as human, just as mortal and susceptible to folly, to make that choice for them?” The heated combat of words between the two of you takes up the presence of the room. Charles and Thomas look along rather gleefully while William and Shay look slightly concerned.

“If I considered it my _right_ to steer mankind that would be a mistake my associates should correct by ending my life.” He drinks delicately. “This, as I have said and always considered it to be, is a _burden_.”

You lean forward in your chair, every fiber of you tense and annoyed at the pompous arse seated ahead of you. “Then answer the question. Is your burden so light that you would take on the weight of controlling others with a supernatural tool to aid you?”

He places his drink aside, smooths a hand over his chin while he stares down his nose at you. The words come smoothly. “I will do what is necessary for the success of the Templar Order. Utilizing an artifact should not be necessary, but if in our possession it is a boon to us regardless.”

The breath caught in your chest bursts free. _Finally_ , he admits to something. Something he had been hesitant to initially speak of. Whatever objects or information is found could be wielded by these so-called Templars. “Thank you, Haytham.”

“For?” His brow quirks upward.

“Your honesty. That’s all I ask.”

For a few moments he considers you curiously. William soon piques to ease the falling tension at a more comfortable pace. “I believe the lass sufficiently understands our cause, Master Kenway. And in such a short time understands the intricacies of what makes our task so difficult. I, for one, put my faith in her readiness to examine the document.”

The vote of confidence catches you off guard. Even moreso when Shay and Thomas mirror William’s sentiments. You have to keep from clutching your chest when _Charles_ agrees with them. They give sidelong glances to Haytham as he weighs their words before producing the prize that had been stripped from you the day before:

Samuel’s journal.

The burning desire to satisfy the curiosity in your blood begins to cool when the item is placed in your hands and Haytham gracefully seats himself again. All eyes are back to you now. Each man staring intently as you hold a potential wealth of knowledge that has been locked away by death’s silence and secrecy.

Their Grand Master sits with one leg folded over the other, palms laced together in his lap. That regal voice does not disappoint. “If you think you are ready, would you like to begin?”

Dry air goes down roughly at your attempt to swallow. And an unstoppably curious hand peels open the journal’s cover.

 

* * *

 _My apologies for not keeping you up to date — curious events have transpired recently. A man of the name_ Haytham Kenway _came to my home to extend an offer for a job. Strange enough on its own, but the cad ignored my initial refusal. Told me it would be in my best interest — as if he were already aware of my financial woes. Richard of course invited him in, no doubt swayed by his wealthy attire. With two children to feed, Richard_ _’s pride has always peeled away for the most desirable results. I wish I could say the same. And that blasted man, much as I love him, had me wrapped around his finger accepting the job within an hour._

 _The day I can say no to Richard is the day I_ _’ve lost all sensibilities._

 _Since then, Haytham has been a blessing to our household. His funding is plentiful and the task appointed to me is significant enough to test even_ my _skills. He_ _’s strangely appointed me a bodyguard — just a rough scrap of a boy. How ludicrous! But for now there is promise in the future of steady pay and employment. Or so Haytham says. It’s all curious: his documents, his purpose, and his commitment to secrecy and protection._

_I know well enough not to poke my nose where it shouldn't and, so long as the money flows, my curiosity need not be fed when I can instead feed my children and keep my husband content._

* * *

Through the course of the day, the men come and go save for William. It’s the rumble of his chuckle that breaks your concentration on the passage. He answers your curious look with a smile and adjusts himself in his fireside chair. “Sorry, lass. I just — a strange thought occurred to me.”

“Yes?”

“How many times was it that Haytham had to visit you to get you to agree to his terms? Four? Five?”

“Five,” you recall with minimal amusement. Seems William has much fonder memories when he had been on the other side of the negotiation table.

“Aha, yes.” He rolls out another warm laugh, but stops short when he notices your expression. “Please, forgive my outburst. Samuel also had his doubts at Haytham’s words, but came to serve under him well in the end. It’s amusing to think where his time with us began and ended — dedicated to the Templar cause.”

And look where it’s gotten Samuel — he and his family dead with nothing left of his memory but cinders, desperate Templars, and a book. You give a small smile at William’s attempt at humor. Truly, he’s a kind man, but a smidgen oblivious to your feelings on the matter. With the time spent in their company and under their watch, the daily tension of working has decreased to a point of almost being imperceptible. Not comfortable by any means, but at the very least it is tolerable. But for William to imply that you may some day be _dedicated_ to them the way Samuel? It’s a stretch. A far-reaching stretch, indeed.

“Ah, don’t let me interrupt. Just a bit of intrigue.” He gently indicates toward the book resting in your lap. “Please, continue.”

 

* * *

 _You_ _’ll scarcely believe the change of pace today. After translating some of the scripts they’ve given me, just a few scant pages, they’ve placed an entire book in my care. It looks_ immeasurably _old. In all honesty, I_ _’m not sure how it’s still in one piece. And for the life of me, I cannot place its origin. I dared chance to ask that boy, Shay, about it and he’d looked at me as though I had asked him for the very sword from his belt. Seems I was correct about asking these men anything beyond what is absolutely necessary._

 _In news I know you_ _’ll appreciate, we have been able to find a home that better suits our needs with our newfound funding. Large enough for the boys, Jacob and Leonardo, to roam. And of course Richard’s gotten them a new dog — the boys named the hairy mutt Henry of all things. He spoils them rotten, but in this highlight of our lives he says it’s important to give the boys something to grow alongside. You know my track record of saying no to him._

 _Even as work piles on and carries me later and later into the night, he is still there for me. I_ _’d be lost without him and our boys; I know I would._

* * *

Being a secondhand witness to how much joy had come into a man’s life with Haytham’s monetary assistance is strange. Within a few pages and a few hours’ time, you’ve seen the unrestrained joy and prosperity of a man, his husband, their children, and dog.

All of it is far cry from how you had been treated early on in your employment. Niceties and protection and fineries were presented to you, yes, but not _once_ in your time here have you truly felt joy and companionship in the way Samuel describes living his life with his loved ones. The closest feeling to that is being treated as an asset — something to protect from harm. A harm you’re only in danger of because of accepting the job in the first place.

You rub tenderly at your pained shoulder and hope to high heaven the feeling in your stomach isn’t envy of the blissfully ignorant time Samuel had been allowed. Can’t concentrate on that now. Just press forward and fill in the blanks of Samuel’s story that leads to his sad end.

Some weeks in the journal are summarized in brief passages. Little etchings of curiosities drawn out and scribbled away. Further and further with each page, they seem to grow further spaced out — adding visual unsureness and a growing uneasiness as they grow less and less stable.

 

* * *

 _You know as well as I do that I consider myself a man of God, despite what any writings may say of men like me and the life I live. Richard isn_ _’t as attached to the written word as I, but I know him to be dedicated in his faith. We both are. But prayer has not been enough. I tried to go to him today and speak with him about my concerns. What would happen to us when I translate this book? My employer is generous, but he will not keep me when his need is done._

 _He tries to tell me not to worry. Why he does that, I cannot say; he knows I worry. I must provide for him and our children the way I always have._ _‘_ Do not worry. Do not fret. We will see to this the way we always have: together, _’ he says. The long hours I am working may be stealing my senses. I’m not sure. But something will need to be done to prove my worth for Haytham to keep me funded._

_And there is more that plagues my mind, I am afraid._

_In my time on this Earth, in the eyes of the Lord, I have done my best to provide for my loved ones and for my family. I am a creature of God_ _’s creation, of soil and everlasting love, but today I am questioning. The passages I’ve translated are strange. They mention things I do not fully understand. Powerful items that seem unusual and otherworldly. Something out of a feverdream of a madman that could bestow power unto their wielders to give them the very abilities of God himself._

 _To heal the sick. To know the hearts of men beyond the lies they speak. To wield the beams of power at a sword_ _’s tip._

 _It_ _’s all heresy, I say. Nonsense, every bit of it. I won’t hear of it or entertain it save to put food on the table for my family._

* * *

Looks as though suffering came to Samuel through the veil of ignorance.

A few more pages tell of his ongoing struggle with Richard and his own growing concern about keeping himself valuable in Haytham’s eyes as the book neared its completion. That same concern borders on obsession as his entries change from sporadic and sparsely written to almost-daily frantic entries. More and more questions about these items and Haytham’s curiosity toward them — no doubt the weapons that Haytham spoke of earlier.

“Samuel was a religious man?” You ask, a bit quietly and rest your eyes from scanning pages.

“Yes. Avidly so.” William answers and clears his throat. There’s a small motion from his area of the room that suggests slight discomfort. “Not usually a quality we look for, but so long as it didn’t get in the way, Haytham did not mind.”

Well. Wasn’t as though Samuel had much choice in the matter with his dependence on Haytham’s money. A curious thought prods at your skull until your voice gives it life. “But what if it did?”

William replies, quick as a snap. “If his faith had gotten in the way? I suppose Haytham would deal with it accordingly.” He thinks on your words a while longer, mulling them over with careful consideration before probing with another question. “Did Haytham happen to mention to you what happened when he had his own Templar discussion with Samuel? Like the one we had with you earlier today.”

The thought alone sends goosebumps shivering down your spine. The talk with you was already insufferable, but for a zealot like Samuel? He couldn’t have been much more accepting than you had been. “I do not believe he did. Why, did something happen?”

“Strange that you mention his beliefs — he didn’t receive the news well at all.” Hard to imagine that a man that overly religious would have a hard time swallowing the truths of an unseen organization using godly weapons behind the scenes? Impossible. Still, William continues. “It did not seem to bother him terribly at first, but as he delved deeper into his translations… he needed…”

He motions in the air to find a word to describe it.

“An anchor. A reference point. A place that you should be fast approaching. Translating what is before you will not help without something to relate it to. Small inferences can be made; meanings of words and entire sentences changed by additional knowledge. That was a clarity we failed to immediately provide for him.”

“And?” If the next sentence out of his mouth isn’t the most predictable thing…

“Ah. By the time it occurred to us what the document may be speaking of, our revelation to him seemed to, well, break him. He stopped responding to our visits after that — Richard had to answer in his stead for perhaps a week. Just as he was wearing Haytham’s nerves thin, he came back to us more dedicated than ever.”

“And no one found that odd?”

“Of course we did. But he claimed nothing was the matter and we had no evidence to show otherwise.”

A dead man’s secrets are lying within these bound pages, hiding behind the masks of the inked words Samuel had so willingly provided. At first, his foundation had been strong. But now as you flip through the timeline of his recorded life the things that you find don’t seem quite normal. For an incredibly fragile part of his life, this journal may have been Samuel’s only outlet for the inner workings of his mind — to release things that neither his family or employers should know.

It appears Samuel’s cross may have been a bit too heavy to bear.

William peers toward you curiously. “Are you getting at something, lass?”

“It’s nothing for the moment. Just a hunch.”

 

* * *

 _The day I was fearing may soon be approaching: the day I reap the consequence of not fully understanding a job I am undertaking. My nights at home have been sleepless and restless even with Richard at my side. I fear I_ _’m beginning to keep him from a full night’s rest, too._

_The passages in the furthest sections of the book explain something I will not fully describe, but as I read more and more of this text, I fear that there may be glimmers of truth buried under what I knew to be lies. An item described with the ability to give life to the dead! To sow life into those where life was once lost!_

_Were that not enough to destroy me, I was approached by a man in the market today. He wore plain clothes and spoke with no discernible accent, but he told me:_ They will never provide you the answers you seek. _It was so swift that when I turned to face him he was already gone into the crowd!_

 _This is my second day awake since then and I can no longer find solace in confiding with Richard. He tells me not to worry and does nothing to help ease my suffering. ~~What~~_ ~~_’s the point of this money if it’s breaking me apart?_~~

_No. I must be strong for Richard. For Jacob and Leonardo._

* * *

 

Someone in a market? And there is no mention of him informing anyone else on the appearance of this disturbing man. You read on with fingers clenching the sides of the leather-bound book.

 

* * *

 _This is the last of my writings, I_ _’m af—_

* * *

 

What? No, no that can’t be all. And sure enough, turning the book to its final few pages show them all to be blank. Horribly, gut-wrenchingly blank.

 

* * *

 _This is the last of my writings, I_ _’m afraid. I will explain, but first…_

_First, an apology._

_My dearest Richard. Love and light of my life in a time of only darkness and sorrow._ I’m sorry. _I_ _’m so sorry my love for what I’ve done. Had I known for even a moment what danger I would place us in, I would have gathered you and our children to take us as far away as possible. I have gotten us tangled in something monstrous and the bonds are ready to slide about our throats. The moment I complete translating this work, my love, I will have penned our very deaths. That is why I am stopping, my love. These men cannot have what they seek and they cannot part us from each other — not now, not ever._

_Second, a warning to those who may be unknowing as I once was._

_There is an unseen pulse to the world that has continued for as long as mankind has had breath. A strike down the center of mankind that would send its opposite ends competing for power and dominance and chasing foolish ideologies. The cycle of this folly has persisted for thousands of years — each side taking a stance to do what they consider best for mankind. Those that would seek Freedom of Choice: the Assassin Brotherhood, and those who seek Truth and Guidance: the Templar Order._

_Each insist that it is they and their kind who bring about what is needed for the true unity of man. Their history continues in spite of their finely aged codswallop. Never trust their words — they are sheathed in fanaticism that they will wield to meet their ends._

_Lastly, a final threat._

_To the Assassins and Templars that may read the brief history of Samuel Duncan Dunes:_

_You will_ never _get what you seek. I have made sure of this. Your precious book will burn with me. My notes, too, will burn and the only thing that will be left of e is this journal as a final word of things I have longed to say. From the Dunes with our final day on Earth: May the grace of God bypass you all, and the Hell you find be of your own making._

* * *

And again. Again and again and again you read over the passage before dropping the book in your lap. Had he… Had Samuel known he was going to die?

Somehow, he knew about the fire. _Knew_ it was going to happen and even counted on it to destroy his notes and—

_His apology._

Your hand at your mouth draws William’s concern. What words he speaks do not reach your ears.

For the moment, your mind is plagued with possibilities. Had… _Samuel_ started that fire? Out of the fear and paranoia of Assassins and Templars? Was it of an unusually devout attachment to God? Did he fear entering financial ruin after Haytham no longer needed him?

“Lass?” The Irishman asks again with a firmer insistence in his tone as the first few streaks of tears break free from your frantic blinking. “Are you all right? What happened?”

“Don’t.” The choked command stops him in his tracks as he makes to approach. “Just — you just stay over there.”

Another time he may have played off the command with cute mock offense. Or would have even acquiesced without second question. But this is work. This is _Templar_ business. He takes another step.

“I said don’t!”

“What’s gotten you this way? Come now, be reasonable.”

And something snaps. A fragility within you you weren’t aware existed.

“Be _reasonable?_ You drove this man crazy… You and—and Haytham and all these goddamned secrets you say you have to keep!” He stares from you to the book in your lap and back to you with a question on his lips. “I won't— Do not ask me, because I’m not repeating it.”

It has already been too much trying to stomach it the many times you read through to make sense of it. Too much to vocalize it when just hearing the words playing over and over in your mind's voice sets your hands trembling.

The red-shawled man remains where he stands and rolls his tongue against his cheek to mentally pick at careful words for this terse situation. “Do you require anything of me?”

Besides honesty, clarity, and a past that isn’t absolutely covered in blood?

“The others,” you say, still a bit choked. “You should probably get them. I’m done.” He nods his understanding and leaves without another word to grant you some blessed moments of peace.

The pillar you had hoped to lean on is crumbling. The anchor you needed to keep you close to shore holds no weight and you’re drifting further into this mess. Just like Samuel had. Bitter disbelief powers your hand to reach for the book, to turn through its contents once more for something — anything. It’s a thoughtless motion and may as well be self-flagellation as you torture yourself even more in a time when you should be seeking tranquility.

But your search hits an unintended mark.

It’s there. Scrawled on the back of the final page at the bottom. _How had you missed it?_

 

* * *

_Haytham,_

_Your blind faith in me, while flattering, was misguided. I would apologize for the deception had I not been deceived by you all along. The translations you have been provided are unfounded babblings that will lend you no aid._

* * *

 

The paranoia of this man truly knows no bounds. Had he honestly taken Haytham's money without giving him anything in return? Nothing but senseless words on paper? With the book's translations complete, he may have been found out in his lies. May have been subjected to the wrath of Templars... A slumbering power he may not have fully realized. Still, it's almost impressive how he kept Haytham as much in the dark as he did. And it offers a bit of clearness as to _why_ nothing in Samuel’s partially recovered translations made any sense.

Reading further steals your heartbeat. Twice more you read the familiar name before the pounding of your pulse rings in your ears with the thud of footsteps in the hall.

 

* * *

_Lawrence,_

_My interest in your offer of betraying Haytham and entering your service never existed — as I_ _’m sure your intentions to help my family were equally untrue. The translations provided to you are as useless as Haytham’s. Perhaps at a later time the two of you may meet and find this as amusing as I have._

* * *

 

“William informs us that you’ve finished your readings. What findings do you have?” The men take their seats in their usual arrangement. It’s Haytham, of course, who leads the discussion with William looking a bit distraught.

After a beat or two passes without your reply, Haytham looks curiously to William and back to you. You speak before he has the chance to repeat his question.

“Yes. I’m finished.” You remark and he nods his approval and motions for you to continue. The only thing you can offer back is a weak smile and a crackling voice behind a dry throat. “I quit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another struggle chapter to reveal plot I've been waiting months to throw down, and this is just part of it. Next chapter will be a rollercoaster as you can imagine, and as always thanks for reading!
> 
> Pop by my Tumblr if you're feeling bored/lonely/talkative. https://darkchocolatepleasecake.tumblr.com/


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